Shot in the Dark
by Benfan
Summary: The revelations about Sherlock's abduction as a boy are troubling each of the three men, Mycroft, Sherlock and John. Sherlock wants to know the whole truth, but Mycroft has sworn never to tell anybody anything, certainly not to Sherlock. A shot in the dark pushes everyone to their limits... Just read [and review :-)]. Reviews contain spoilers! Cover by Rephis!
1. Prologue

**This is meant to be the sequel of the Dangerous Mould stories, however, I will ****_try_**** to write it in a way that you don't necessarily have to have read the other two stories. **

**_Librarianmum, _you are ****the greatest and sweetest beta on earth! Thank you![I had a virtual rose here for you, but it doesn't show! :-(]  
**

**I really also have to thank ****_Prothoe_**** who provided me with the most pleasant and crucial information on Sherlock during the past weeks. ;-) We will never find the answer to the question as to how old we are... **

**Enjoy! Feedback is greatly appreciated.**

**The great cover for this story was made by Rephis. I'm really excited about it, but it is a pity that it doesn't show completely here, so go check out the original picture at rephis. deviantart. com (without spaces). Thank you so much for it! It's just brilliant to have a cover that was particularly made for Shot in the Dark!**

**Disclaimer: "Sherlock" is not mine, it belongs to the BBC and its producers; I just love the characters and borrow them. No money is made from this. **

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**Shot in the Dark**

**Prologue**

John's world stopped turning and shattered into millions of pieces.

He felt the cold rain on his head, running down his face and the droplets of water soaking his collar. His trousers were all wet and the cold was crawling up his legs, giving him goose-bumps. However, it wasn't just the cold from the rain and the chilly temperature, it was a gruesome cold clutching him, eating him up.

His hands were grazed from the concrete and he was vaguely aware of the burning sensation the wounds caused. He was numb, unable to move. His mouth opened and yet remained silent, the scream wanting to escape from deep inside him stuck in his throat.

Some droplets of rain dripped from his upper lip into his mouth. They didn't taste of water, though. Iron. Blood. There was blood in his mouth. He had apparently hit his head hard on the asphalt.

Everything hurt under the surface of the numbness, a dull pain that became stronger. It was strongest in his leg. He was sure it was broken. He was lying in the pouring rain – injured and broken - but did any of that matter?

John couldn't avert his gaze from Sherlock. The Consulting Detective was lying short distance away from him, the bullet hole in his head clearly visible even in the rain and the dark, a cruel black spot on the pale skin. There was a dark rivulet running from the hole, finally forming a small puddle under Sherlock's head. Raindrops splashed into the dark liquid. Sherlock's arms were extended and his coat was spread under him, giving him the surreal look of a dark angel fallen from the night sky.

He had failed. Failed to save his life. All the times in the past months that he had been able to save his friend's life had been in vain. The thought of it tore him apart. John took a deep breath and eventually screamed from the bottom of his heart and soul before darkness embraced him, the echo of his desperation reverberating in the street.

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No worries, it's not a death!fic :-)


	2. Hangover

**Oh, wow! I was really amazed by the response to the prologue! Thank you so very much for the reviews -this has been a happy week for me! :-) I want to particularly thank the ****_guests_**** (one is Nella) who left reviews (also for Dangerous Mould I and II), whom I couldn't get back to, because they weren't logged in. If by chance you read this: I love your feedback, thanks!**

**I'm also very happy about all the follows and favs and the lovely PMs!**

**I thought, though, that a depressive mood is the after-effect on those who had been ****_exposed_**** to Tabun, not on those who ****_write_**** about it! :-) It may, however, just be our very dark spring – you can count every single ray of sunshine! – that influences me in a way that "Shot in the Dark" turns out a bit gloomy. I hope you enjoy it anyway; the first chapter isn't that bad and ****_librarianmum_**** reassured me that I was over the worst anyway with the following chapters– I do hope you're right! Thanks!**

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**Chapter 1**

_**Two weeks earlier**_

Sherlock opened his eyes and immediately closed them again. The pain that shot through his head felt like it was splitting his brain. It slowly eased up to a constant throbbing, but every attempt to open his eyes again resulted in waves of pain and nausea. He realized that he had a hangover. It had just been one glass of whiskey - a double, admittedly - but after the blood loss it had been more than enough to knock him out instantly.

He winced on moving, because all his muscles were tense. The Consulting Detective concluded that he wasn't lying in his bed. He was in a sitting position, so he still had to be in the armchair where he had been the night before and obviously had fallen asleep in. That explained the aches running the length of his entire body. He shifted slightly, still without opening his eyes, and couldn't avoid the groan that escaped his mouth. It sounded somewhat hollow since he was still wearing the breathing mask; however, he could not force his arm to move in the direction of his mouth and get rid of that plastic thing that was disturbing his oversensitive skin. How dull it was to be in need of extra-oxygen; and how ridiculous it was to almost die of a nosebleed!

In the last few weeks John had turned out to be his guardian angel, sort of, since he had been there just in time to save his life more than once. Sherlock had always thought he'd be able to look after himself, but he had been proven wrong lately.

"Morning", he heard John say quite cheerfully.

Sherlock couldn't share his flatmate's cheerfulness as the memories of the incidents of last night washed over him and he felt even more nauseous, hardly being able to suppress the urge to vomit. He felt as if he had been in a surreal dream, and in fact, remembering the details, he would rather it _had_ been a nightmare instead of his own personal and miserable experience. He still didn't know any details, but the emotions that were accompanying his brother's revelations were hurting him, causing him pain, making him insecure, making him everything that he despised so much in other people and even more in himself: they were making him weak.

He had embraced the dullness that the intoxication had brought with it. It had come much faster than he had expected. Sherlock distantly remembered the things he had said to John. On the one hand he felt embarrassed, but on the other hand, John was his only true friend; and since John insisted on the fact that saying nice things was something he should practice anyway, he probably didn't have to worry about it too much.

Sherlock was lost in thought when again he heard John's voice.

"You ok, mate? I'm just asking, because I know what you look like when you're miserable, but today you look… shit. Sorry, but I can't think of any suitable euphemism right now."

_Yes, John, thank you_, Sherlock thought, _so I look exactly how I feel_.

However, what he was capable of saying when John removed the breathing aid from his face was a mere "Headache". And even that was more whimper than word. Upon saying that, Sherlock felt bile coming up his gullet and he swallowed hard.

"I have a bucket here, just in case. It's fine, Sherlock." John said in his particular doctor's voice.

Sherlock simply shook his head. He didn't want to throw up; he was entirely fed up with being sick, injured and vulnerable. On the one hand, he was, of course, grateful that John was at his side, being the only person in the world he really trusted after all, but on the other hand he loathed being dependent on anybody, even on his flatmate.

Until now Sherlock had sat in his armchair barely moving; however, he felt that he had to at least try to open his eyes. He needed to find out if he had to use the bucket after all. So he forced his eyelids open and was overwhelmed by the stinging pain in his eyes and head, although the room was only dimly lit, thanks to a considerate flatmate, apparently. He felt extremely sick for a short time, after which it got much better and Sherlock felt the relief of having won over his body this time. Regaining control - that was a good thing. Blinking his eyes a couple of times he tried to focus on John, which was more difficult than Sherlock had imagined.

John was standing by his side, the bucket still in position, and looking at him with a grin on his face. Sherlock knew exactly why he was so amused – he rarely drank any alcohol, let alone got drunk. In the back of his mind he wondered if he really remembered everything of the night before. And yet, there was something else in John's face, which didn't fit his amusement. He had bags under his eyes, so hadn't slept much or well, and his eyes weren't displaying the cheerfulness that he was performing. He looked worried.

_He worries too much_, Sherlock thought, _stupid sentiment_.

Anyway, he didn't want John to look at him this way. He wanted to get rid of all the thoughts and memories that were troubling him and also his flatmate. Most of all, he didn't want to be pitied.

He had to admit that he and John had forced Mycroft into telling them what he knew, but who would have expected such an outcome? Even he hadn't been able to foresee it, to deduce it. And still, there was this nagging little voice inside him, telling him that Mycroft should have told him before, should have given him the details so that everything that had happened wouldn't have if he had been able to recognize the errand boy who had delivered the poisoned petri-dish. So it was, more or less, Mycroft's fault. John would blame him for being unfair, but was there any other conclusion for him to draw?

He needed to know more, everything, to be precise; at least everything that Mycroft knew – and Sherlock was fairly sure that that was almost everything. However, deep inside, he was dreading knowing more. If the emotions alone were so strong, how would he react to graphic descriptions of the abduction that had brought him on the verge of dying? On the other hand, the descriptions would always stay descriptions as the memories belonging to them were deleted. So, logically, there couldn't be an emotional connection. And yet, there was; the definite proof given by his emotional state the night before.

Sherlock's mind was roiling. His reason told him he shouldn't pry this secret out of Mycroft, but his natural curiosity and pride told him that it was his basic right to know about such a major event in his early life. It was _his_ life, after all.

John placed the bucket in Sherlock's lap and left for the kitchen, only to return with a glass of water and a white pill in his hand.

"Aspirin", he stated and held out the hand to Sherlock. "Take it and drink some sips of water. It'll get better then. But drink slowly; otherwise you'll definitely need that bucket." He pointed at Sherlock's lap. The Consulting Detective made a wry face but took the tablet and the water with shaking hands. John supported him when the glass was about to slip from the weak man's hand; and a prolonged blink of Sherlock's eyes, accompanied by inhaling deeply, showed his annoyance about his helplessness.

"You should lie down properly for a while, in your bed, that is. The armchair really isn't the best place for resting. So, up you get. Let me help you." John suggested, although it wasn't actually meant as a suggestion but an order, Sherlock sensed. He had to admit that, in fact, it was the best option right now. So he stood from the armchair and shakily went to his bed, having to pause twice on his way because of waves of nausea and the overwhelming weakness. For Sherlock it felt as if John was carrying most of his weight anyway. He fell heavily on his bed and felt himself drifting off to sleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

John covered Sherlock with a blanket, as he was currently lying on top of his duvet, and left the room. He would have a cup of tea and watch crap telly and… think.

Mycroft and Sherlock had been very agitated the night before, as had he. The fact that Sherlock, and incidentally also John, had been poisoned with Tabun, a nerve agent, for the revenge of a family who had lost a member in World War II due to gruesome experiments conducted by the Holmes' grandfather, had, quite naturally, led to Sherlock and John investigating on the reasons. Mycroft's behaviour during the incidents of the last weeks had been quite suspicious, so they had probed him until he had agreed to tell Sherlock what he was willing to give away. Surprisingly enough, it had turned out that, in fact, Mycroft was only protecting Sherlock in every possible way and that the danger they had sensed in him wasn't directed at themselves but at those who threatened the younger Holmes. Mycroft had promised that the family couldn't do them any further harm. He had ensured that, if ever again they set a foot on the British Isles, they wouldn't survive it. John knew that he and Sherlock were now under maximum surveillance by the older Holmes' agents, so they should be safe. And still, the simplicity of a nosebleed could be more of a threat than any criminal or avenging angel. Nobody could predict anything like that, but it had shaken John and Mycroft. There had been too many times lately that they had had to fear for Sherlock's life.

While being lost in thought, John had prepared a cup of Lady Grey for himself and sat down with the steaming mug, inhaling the scent of lemon that he liked so much. He was wondering how Sherlock would deal with what he had found out about himself. The fact that he had asked for alcohol the night before had, on the one hand, worried John a bit. However, on the other hand, he had only asked for a glass of Whiskey, not for any cigarettes or even drugs. Well, he wouldn't _ask_ for the drugs anyway, but he didn't attempt to get any– probably due to his current health condition, probably because he wasn't in danger of relapsing. John didn't know, but he would watch Sherlock carefully. He knew that the Consulting Detective wouldn't approve of it, but the ex-army doctor wouldn't be able to avoid watching his friend closely anyway. That's what friends _did_.

John took a couple of sips of tea and had just closed his eyes to shut himself off from the rest of the world for just a second when he heard Sherlock scream. He jumped and spilt some of the still very hot tea over his hand and lap. Cursing, he put the mug down on the coffee table and hurried to his flatmate's bedroom. He didn't pay any attention to privacy and entered the room without knocking.

Sherlock was entangled in the blanket John had covered him with, fighting as if his life depended on it. His face was screwed up and covered in sweat; his eyes were closed, yet moving rapidly under his eyelids - he was having a nightmare. John knew this too well as he had been having nightmares almost every night after his return from Afghanistan. They had only stopped some time after he had moved in with Sherlock and his mind had simply been too occupied with what was happening to him when he was accompanying his flatmate on his chases for criminals. Only very rarely did he now have nightly recalls of the terrible incidents he had witnessed during the war.

John hesitated for a moment, slightly shocked by the sight of Sherlock. Seeing him injured, close to death had made John sensitive; seeing him suffering emotionally touched the ex-army man more than he would have imagined. He stepped over to Sherlock and shook his shoulders in order to wake him.

"Sherlock, wake up! You're having a bad dream, it's all fine. Wake up!"

The sleeping man flinched, suddenly opening his eyes wide and staring at John before he seemed to wake and recognize him. He moaned raggedly, his breath slowly evening out.

John talked to him soothingly. "It was just a nightmare, you're awake now, Sherlock, it was just a dream."

Sherlock shook his head violently, a disbelieving expression on his face. "It wasn't a real nightmare, John", he mumbled, "I didn't see anything. I only _felt_ something!"

"I know exactly what you mean, believe me. You felt… sheer terror, right?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, inhaling and exhaling deeply. "Yes," he whispered. "I'm haunted by emotions – how ridiculous, John!"

"It's not at all that," the ex-army man replied quietly, remembering that there was nothing ridiculous about it, quite on the contrary. "Your emotional impressions are still quite fresh, so I guess dreams like that might go away after some time. If not, Sherlock, you have to talk to a therapist. "

The Consulting Detective snorted contemptuously.

"Therapists! Therapists always try to overcome emotions with other emotions, and if you had considered your suggestion properly, you would know that that doesn't work with me! I've had so many therapists in my life, all forced on me by my oh-so _caring_ family, and not a single one had lasted longer than two sessions, because they were all so PREDICTABLE!"

Despite Sherlock's weakness, he had managed to talk himself into a rage.

John raised his hands defensively. "It was just a well-meant advice, Sherlock, no need to be offended."

"Then just leave me alone, John, will you!?" Sherlock fidgeted with the blanket in an attempt to disentangle himself from it. His flatmate briefly thought about helping him, but decided otherwise and did what Sherlock had asked him. Straightening his shoulders and slowly counting to ten to calm down, John left the room. He wished for Sherlock and himself that the former would not have to suffer from many more nightmares, as it was clear that if he did, his mood would become unbearable; plus, he would be confined to his bed or at least the flat to fully recover from the recent blood loss anyway for some more time and John didn't really feel like playing the part of his verbal punching bag all the time.

John was standing in the living room, indecisively, clenching his fists and opening them again. For the time being he could do nothing but wait, so he finally resumed drinking his now only lukewarm tea and turned on the TV.


	3. Diogenes Club

**Chapter 2**

Sherlock was physically recovering well; however, mentally he was in meltdown. The nightmares kept returning, Sherlock's screams filling the otherwise quiet flat. With every sweat-soaked awakening his mood worsened. He avoided John, refused to talk to any of the visitors dropping by, and, although he was strong enough after a couple of days to get up, he stayed in his room most of the time. John didn't know what he was doing in there, if he was sleeping or reading or anything as he didn't dare to invade his flatmate's privacy any more. He had been thrown out once too often.

When he couldn't stand it anymore, John told Sherlock through the locked door that he would go on a walk for a couple of hours and left the flat. He needed to talk to Mycroft, who hadn't shown up since the night he had filled them in with Sherlock's terrible experiences and his involvement in deleting the memories of them in order to save his brother's life.

John stepped on the pavement, closing the front door behind him with a slam, and inhaled the fresh air. It was a still chilly early spring day**;** the rays of sunshine, however, were already warming his face and brightening his own mood a tad. He hailed a taxi and gave the address of the Diogenes Club, where he would surely find Mycroft.

Upon arriving at his destination, John noticed that he was already expected by an elderly man in a black suit with perfectly shiny shoes and a bow tie fixed at the very stiff and uncomfortable looking collar. He pretty much looked like a butler, but said nothing except "Follow me, Dr Watson". So, Mycroft was already one step ahead of him – as usual.

They walked through some rooms and corridors, all embellished with dark precious wood, full of heavy antique furniture and uncountable amounts of books. The sounds of their steps were muffled by the thick carpets. No other person was to be seen and the one attempt John had made to talk to the "butler" had been dismissed by a curt shake of his head. John felt a bit shabby in his jeans, jumper and parka. The atmosphere in this building was quite intimidating, which fit Mycroft, though. John wondered whether it was possible _not_ to become like Sherlock's brother when you worked in an environment like this. At least you wouldn't wear casual clothing anymore, because it simply wouldn't be an option in such a place.

After seemingly endless corridors, John was shown a room and offered a chair – without speaking of course. John took the seat and looked around in the room. Everything appeared to be heavy and –important. He jumped a little when Mycroft suddenly stood opposite him. Sherlock's brother hadn't made a single sound upon entering the room and John wondered if he had just _appeared_ in front of him.

"So, he's not doing particularly well." It was a statement, not a question. Either Mycroft had been expecting it or he knew.

"No."

"I had warned him."

"Yes, you had, Mycroft; but if you were Sherlock - of all the possible explanations in the world, would you have expected this one? How could he _possibly_ have foreseen this, eh?"

Mycroft had started pacing the room, turning around suddenly and facing John with a grim look on his face.

"You are like children, John, annoying little creatures who keep pestering and don't obey a "no". And then they come running and want to be consoled by their parents because they have burnt their fingers and it _hurts_!"

John was dumbfounded. It seemed as if both the Holmes brothers had suddenly built ramparts of insults in order to deter anyone from talking to them sensibly. He got up from the armchair and turned to leave, although he wasn't sure if he would be able to find his way out of here. There was apparently no use in talking to Mycroft.

"Wait!" the older Holmes said with a low voice, "My apologies."

The doctor turned around with a very surprised look on his face, his eyebrows raised questioningly.

"Sit down, please." Mycroft pointed to the comfortable armchair John had sat in before. He cautiously slid into the depths of the soft piece of furniture again. Mycroft went to a cabinet, opened it and took out two crystal glasses and a crystal glass bottle with a dark golden liquid in it. Scotch, it seemed. The aristocratic man just held up the glasses briefly, but John understood and nodded. Apparently, in these rooms speaking was reduced to the absolute minimum.

After Mycroft had poured them both a glass and they had taken the first sip of the excellent Scotch quietly, John started a second attempt.

"He's having nightmares. He says they're not pictures but the echo of his fear, just emotions and they are getting stronger and more frequent. I suggested he should see a therapist, but he refused. He doesn't eat, doesn't speak, doesn't talk to _anyone_, avoids me and stays locked in his room most of the day. He's slipping through my fingers, Mycroft. Tell him what happened and he can relate the emotions to something, as unpleasant as it might be. He's close to a meltdown and I'm not sure what he will do then. Tell him."

Mycroft thoughtfully tossed the drink in his glass, looking at it as if it held the answer.

"I can't." His voice was quiet, without any of his usual disdain or sarcasm.

"Tell him," John insisted, leaning forward in his armchair and glaring at the man opposite him.

Mycroft looked up from his glass and straight into John's eyes. The ex-army man scrutinized the older Holmes. All his superiority had crumpled and there he was again: Mycroft Holmes, a human being, full of emotions, of worries, looking exhausted and despairing. John was convinced that not many people in the world had seen him drop the mask that gave him an untouchable authority. And yet, it was a doubtful privilege.

"I can't, John. I really can't. The memories have been haunting _me_ for years; I could cope with them because they weren't_ my_ experiences. Sherlock has almost died once because of them, I won't let him die now. And die he will, if not physically then mentally. - I can't. Do not probe me any further, I beg you."

"He _is_ dying mentally right now! Tell me what to do, Mycroft, because, honestly, I'm at the end of my tether."

Mycroft wiped his face with his hands. "Be yourself, John, and just keep an eye on him."

"Yeah, I know, and if anything happens I'll call you, right? Don't you see that it's not as simple as that? At least you should try to talk to him as his brother. I can't get through to him anymore."

"He will not be pleased to see me."

"Who knows, Mycroft? He might be needing you more than you could probably imagine. You should at least give it a try. You were the one who helped him back then so maybe you are the only one who can help him now. It's at least worth an attempt."

"Well then. I have business to attend to, so I have to excuse myself." All of a sudden Mycroft had put on his shield of indifference again, nodded John a good-bye and left the room. Was he fleeing?

Once again the ex-army man was left speechless. Had that been a "yes" after all? Talking to the Holmes brothers had always been a testing of the interlocutor's patience, but this time John felt that he simply couldn't muster the necessary amount of it to process what had just happened, so he took the likely expensive crystal glass, emptied it and threw it against the wooden wall, causing probably the loudest noise that the house had heard in years. The glass scattered and covered the fine thick carpet with sparkling shards. John nodded militarily, turned around on his heels the same way and almost bumped into the "butler", who didn't say a word, just gestured at him to follow him.

A taxi was already waiting outside. On his way back to Baker Street, John closed his eyes, leaning into the seats of the cab. He was out of his depth, no doubt. He could only try to prevent things from worsening, but he was fairly sure that he couldn't make them any better.

John also wished he could go back to something like a normal life soon. He was tired of being in constant worry and stress. He wanted to go back to working in the practice. He wasn't even sure if Sarah would take him again as he hadn't been to work in weeks. On the phone she kept saying it was fine, but he wasn't sure if, in the likely case that any other doctor willing to do the locum work showed up, she would keep his place. Also, there were some other priorities in life that he should pay more attention to, like probably Sarah herself. He just needed some time off. He had once wished _anything _would happen to him, but now he wished that for once in weeks _nothing_ would happen to him. Nevertheless, he would never ever let Sherlock down, thus, his "other" life had to wait a little longer.

After the taxi had fought its way through the heavy London traffic and John had realized that he didn't have to pay for it, courtesy of Mycroft, he entered 221B, almost dreading going into their flat in expectancy of either an absent Sherlock, locked in his room, or one who hurled abuse him. However, what he actually found was nothing that he had expected.

"What the _bloody hell_ are you _doing_?!" John shouted hysterically, rushing into the kitchen.


	4. Meltdown

**Blowing kisses to my reviewers and to all those who have added my stories to their alert or favourites lists! *mwha* love you!  
**

**Rating for this chapter is up to _M _for a reason! Just to be on the safe side... **

**Reviews are greatly appreciated as I wasn't sure about this chapter at all.  
**

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**Chapter 3**

Sherlock was sitting on the floor, dressed only in his pyjama bottoms, his unkempt dark curls making a strong contrast to his pale skin, and leaning at the base cabinet, a single-use scalpel in his hand, whose blade had already entered the space between the tendons of his wrist. Blood was dripping from the wound.

John snatched the scalpel away from Sherlock, slightly astonished how little resistance the Consulting Detective offered. He yelled at him to overcome his own shock.

"_Have you gone _completely_ insane?_"

Sherlock didn't reply and didn't move.

Many people didn't know how to slash their wrists effectively, doing it the wrong way, but Sherlock did, and he had been about to do it. Since he had already lost quite a large amount of blood recently,it wouldn't have taken long for him to lose so much blood that the oxygen saturation would have gone fatally low. Bleeding out was a dirty death for those who had to clean up after the dead, but it was pleasant for the dying ones as it didn't hurt. One just fell asleep and never woke up again.

Luckily, Sherlock's cut didn't seem to be too deep, the blood still only dripping from it, not pulsating. John took a clean towel from the drawer and pressed it on the wound. Still Sherlock didn't show any reaction.

"Stay put!" the doctor ordered, although in his current state he wasn't expecting his flatmate to move or run away anyway.

As fast as he could, he fetched the first aid kit from the bathroom and applied a pressure dressing to Sherlock's wrist. It was like patching up a doll, since there wasn't any tension in Sherlock's muscles. His gaze was directed at the treatment of his wrist, however, John doubted that he was actually noticing it. The cut was frightening, but Sherlock's strange behaviour was even more so. He seemed to have fallen into a complete apathy. John hat witnessed this before and for some patients it had been extremely difficult to escape that condition.

"Sherlock, look at me! It's me, John! Can you hear me?"

Slowly, very slowly, Sherlock raised his head and looked John in the eyes, then, as slowly as before, he looked back down. The ever-glowing fire in the Consulting Detective's eyes was gone and it struck his friend that a part in Sherlock seemed to have already died.

John slid down on the floor next to Sherlock, sighing deeply. Never would he have thought that the World's only Consulting Detective could attempt suicide, particularly not in the way he had done. Slashing your wrists was a quite unreasonable method - if there was anything reasonable about taking one's life at all - as it took comparatively long. There were methods that were much more reliable and quicker if the actual aim was to die and not to cry for help. Sherlock had usually been a man of reason, so why, for God's sake, did he try _this_? Of course, he had been strongly disturbed by his emotional experiences lately, but why on earth hadn't John noticed that he had been so close to falling apart?! He had expected an emotional meltdown, but he hadn't imagined how it would take place and that it would happen so soon.

"Sherlock, you know what?" John asked, leaning his head back against the cabinet door. He was aware though of the fact that Sherlock wouldn't answer, probably wouldn't even hear him. "You can't do that to friends, you know? I mean, let them – let _me_– save your life a couple of times, even donate my blood to you, and then sneak away by killing yourself! I don't assume this was just an experiment about how deep you can cut your wrist without bleeding to death, so I think it's really unfair. You don't know how many times I was _that_ close to sending a bullet up my mouth – why, do you reckon, did I keep the gun after having left the army? – but… I wasn't just so selfish as to let others do the cleaning after me and, particularly, I wouldn't have left without any explanation to Harry."

The ex-army doctor let his chin drop on his chest. "Do you know that the bereaved always - and I really mean every single minute of their lives – ask themselves why they hadn't been there in time and why the other one hadn't said anything before?!" He shook his head as if to answer that question himself, then looked at Sherlock, scrutinizing the motionless man next to him.

"You can't just leave me here like that, Sherlock! I might as well take my gun and follow you. Nothing of that, though, would be fair, you know? Not towards Harry, or Mycroft or Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly – man, she would break if she couldn't hover around you in the lab anymore! - Sherlock, you might be having a difficult time, but others suffer, too. I know that you don't really care what others think, but, for once in your life, don't just be selfish! Let us help you, mate! It's nothing to be ashamed of – we all need help occasionally. Even Mycroft. He needs your help right now as much as you need his. Do you understand that?"

John got up from the floor and turned to the kitchen window without actually noticing what was happening outside.

"No, I imagine you don't. But anyway, I've only just returned from him. I went to him because I was worried about you," turning around and facing Sherlock he almost yelled, " – and how right I was! I wouldn't have thought, though, that you'd do _such a bloody stupid thing_! Seriously, Sherlock, someone should punch you to bring you back to your senses – and right now I really feel like that I should be that someone! Damn it, mate! I know that what I'm telling you here is just a shot in the dark, but I really don't know what to do with you. I better go and call Mycroft. He wanted to drop by anyway, but I think I can't wait till then, because I NEED HELP – and so do you, my friend!"

John shook his head in desperation. There was no sign that his flatmate had heard what he had said, nevertheless John felt a bit better. He had been extremely shocked by the sight of Sherlock slashing his wrist and was as much relieved that he hadn't succeeded. The Consulting Detective was still staring at his hands, but his view was empty, his gaze turned inwards.

John wanted to call Mycroft to tell him about what had happened. Maybe that could convince him to tell Sherlock everything to at least try to make it better. It couldn't get any worse anyway. He was afraid, though, that Sherlock would have to be treated in a clinic if he didn't wake from his apathy. The doctor took his mobile from his pocket and left the kitchen, when he heard a whisper.

"Sorry."

John stopped in his movement and turned around. He had just been about to push the dial button, but hesitated now. Sherlock hadn't averted his gaze from his hands, but he was moving the fingers of the hand with the dressing as if to check if they were still obeying him. He seemed to have woken a bit from his mental absence.

"Didn't mean to…"

John's eyebrows shot up. "Didn't mean to… kill yourself? Sherlock?" He snorted disbelievingly. "It's a pretty strange way to not mean it and yet have a scalpel stuck in your wrist. See what I mean?" Having said that, John wished he had bitten his tongue. Sherlock was trying to tell him something, so he should just shut up and listen. He couldn't resist, though, since he was torn between fear, relief and anger, the latter dominating at the moment.

"I... I'm really sorry," John said quietly, rolling his eyes in annoyance about himself. He retrieved a blanket from the sofa, went over to Sherlock and lay it around his shoulders as best as he could. Although he was sure that Sherlock didn't actually feel how chilly it was, sitting bare-chested in a not too warm kitchen definitely couldn't help make him feel better. And he hoped that the pale man was at least a tiny bit susceptible to such comforting gestures. Once again John crouched down at his friend's side.

"So, you didn't mean to…?"

Sherlock pulled his legs to his chin and rested his forehead on his knees, his arms embracing his shins. He looked like a helpless child, trying to hide himself. For a long while he said nothing, and John waited patiently, because he didn't want to spoil it again. After a time that felt endless and the doctor almost having given up hope that his flatmate would speak at all, Sherlock inhaled sharply as if he felt pain and whispered, "I didn't mean to hurt you. I thought pain might distract me from the emotions; I wanted to feel something other than... and ... cut myself. But when I had the blade in my hand it just… happened to slide into the wrist, I… I didn't even realize it. It didn't even hurt, John. I'm sorry."

"Then just… don't do it again. Next time I might not be in time to save you, Sherlock, if your hands go their own ways with a scalpel or anything else potentially lethal in them, you know? Once too often can be pretty terminal with these things, don't forget that."

Sherlock raised his head and bent it to face his flatmate. "I need to know what had happened."

"I thought so. Talk to Mycroft, Sherlock. I guess, this might convince him of the need to do something, so he might give in."

"Don't tell him about this." Sherlock begged shamefacedly.

John gave a brief laugh of helplessness. "Don't underestimate your brother. I, however, will not tell him anything. You set the terms, Sherlock. – I will run you a hot bath. I don't want you to die of pneumonia after all." John pushed himself up and, pointing his index finger at the dark-haired misery on the floor, said warningly, "And don't you dare drown in the tub!"

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**This chapter has been up for a couple of days now and there were many views. However, almost nobody left a review and I really wonder why. If you don't like the chapter or the turn of the story, tell me, please, probably even with a hint of what went wrong. If you like it, please tell me anyway. Really, as I said, I wasn't sure about this chapter and the lack of response has definitely left some more doubts in me. Thank you!  
**


	5. Scrambled Eggs

**Dear readers,**

**after I had posted my last chapter, I was overwhelmed by the response – or rather THE LACK OF RESPONSE. I was really on the verge of giving up writing, or at least publishing. It's not that I only write for the reviews, but I share my stories and it would be very nice if the one or the other could tell me what they think.**

**It is only due to my three loyal reviewers ****_Prothoe_****, ****_Storylover18_**** and ****_Zacha_**** and the highly motivating and encouraging words of ****_Librarianmum_****, ****_Zacha_**** and ****_Catie501_**** that I didn't just delete the story before it had even distantly reached its climax.**

**Thank you for reading and hopefully reviewing. :-)**

**Lots of Love**

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Chapter 4

While Sherlock was in the bath John busied himself with preparing scrambled eggs and coffee, not because he felt the need of having a meal, but rather he needed to do something. Cooking had a soothing effect on John and preparing food for someone else was an expression of the care you provided somebody with, so it helped the cook and the eater. Every now and then he stopped in his work, listening carefully for the sounds from the bathroom, resuming his cooking when he heard an occasional splash that gave proof that the Consulting Detective was moving in the bath, and therefore still alive.

When John had entered the kitchen earlier, seeing Sherlock on the floor with the scalpel in his hand, he had been on the verge of a panic. John felt that death had been hanging over them lately like a sword of Damocles. However, this time, unlike the other times, it would have been self-inflicted, the very belated outcome of cruelties done to a boy. John wondered if, back when Sherlock had been ten and abducted, Mycroft had done the right thing. The doctor asked himself if anybody had the right to intrude on the memories of another person, brother or not, and amend or even delete them. Weren't memories the only property nobody else should ever have access to but the owner himself? If John had been there back then, what would he have done? As a youth? He didn't know. He wouldn't have had the ability or the means to do anything anyway. As a doctor? As such, he was bound to an oath to only act in the patient's best interest, but had the deletion of the memories been an act of best interest or rather of helplessness? If John were to make a decision today he definitely would decide against it, because his code of conduct wouldn't allow such a thing. However, he had to admit that Mycroft probably really hadn't had much of a choice; he had said that Sherlock had been dying.

Either way, John knew one thing for sure: the brothers had to work together to overcome both their traumas for he was convinced that the abduction and what had happened afterwards wasn't only Sherlock's trauma but Mycroft's as well and John would do what he was able to to support them, probably by forcing them to help one another.

After Sherlock had re-emerged from the bath, a little colour had come back to his cheeks; not that they were rosy, but the deathly paleness had subsided at least a bit. John forced him to sit down at the table and have a cup of coffee as well as some scrambled eggs. As usual the thin man didn't eat with much appetite, but at least he did eat without complaint.

John joined Sherlock, not because he was hungry – he was actually far from it, his stomach churning over Sherlock's mental condition -,but because he wanted to serve as a model. He thought about how to open the conversation carefully, in order not to upset Sherlock again and risk a resumption of the behaviour that he had shown the last days, and, therefore, put him in danger of another suicide attempt –whether it had been accidental or not.

Sherlock chewed thoughtfully. "They didn't do it properly."

John stopped bringing the fork to his already open mouth, frowning. "Uhm, what? Who?" He put the fork down on his plate.

Displaying a tiny little bit of his old self, Sherlock gave John an annoyed glance.

"Tobias and Mycroft. They didn't do the deletions properly. Amateurishly, rather."

"Oh, Sherlock!" John leaned back on his chair. "Keep in mind that they didn't have any experience; not with deleting memories from anybody else but themselves, let alone from a child, a dying child! They saved your life and I think you should be a bit more grateful despite what you're going through right now. It had worked for quite a long time, don't forget that. How could they have known that some twenty years later you'd have to deal with it again? Not that I knew anything about mind palaces and intentional saving and deletion of data and whatsoever, but I reckon they did a fabulous job compared to the rest of your family. "

Sherlock stared at the fork in his hand, saying nothing. He suddenly stood from his chair, almost knocking it over and started pacing the room, clutching to the fork in his hand, his silk dark blue dressing gown swirling around him. All of a sudden he stopped at the table and stabbed the cutlery into the rest of the scrambled eggs as if it was a knife skewered into an enemy.

John jumped at the fierce gesture.

"Sherlock, sit down. I can imagine that you want to blame somebody for your … emotional state, but stay fair. If there is anybody to blame, then it's your abductor – or if you want someone from the family, maybe your grandfather. Definitely neither your brother nor his friend Tobias."

The Consulting Detective glared at his flatmate, grabbed the back of his chair, turned it around and let himself fall on it, facing away from John. After no more than just a few seconds, however, he resumed his impatient pacing. John watched him with a frown when he stopped at the window for a while, seeming to look outside, then raising his hands slowly and scrutinizing them, his gaze finally resting on the dressing that was covering the cut in his wrist.

He turned around to John, letting his arms drop.

"What can I do to make it go away?" he asked miserably.

John had been worried by Sherlock's behaviour, fearing he would shut himself off, therefore, he was baffled by the question that sounded like a little child asking his parents to make the monsters in the cupboard disappear. Obviously, what monsters in the closet were for a child, emotions were for Sherlock – something unwanted and scary. John sighed.

"I know this isn't the answer you want to hear, Sherlock, but- I don't know."

"But you're a doctor, John!" the tall man ranted.

"Yes, mate, and you have pointed out to me that you can't be treated like any patient; plus, you mustn't forget that I had to go to one myself, because psychiatrists are trained to deal with traumas in the first place, which I'm not. So what do you expect me to do?"

"You didn't tell your therapist anything, so what use was there in going to a specialist, eh? Go to Mycroft, find out what had happened and then tell me!"

John choked on the sip of coffee that he was just taking. "Not seriously." He put the mug down. "Listen, as much as I want to help you, your brother has made it very clear that he won't tell me anything. The only person who might be able to convince him otherwise is you!"

"He wouldn't want to see me."

"_For goodness sake_! Despite those magnificent brains of yours, you are clots – both of you! I'm quite fed up with you and Mycroft telling me that the respective other doesn't want to talk! This is kindergarten and I'm the one left to grass to the other one, aren't I? Just to make it clear: either you or I will send a text to Mycroft asking him to pay you a visit. And then you talk!"

Sherlock stared at his flatmate with a mixture of disbelief and annoyance for a long time, making John almost feel uncomfortable. It seemed as if the thinking processes in Sherlock's brain were slowed down when it came to contemplating himself and Mycroft. Yet suddenly he came to life, pulled out his mobile, forcefully typed a text into it and with a distinct and exaggerated movement pushed the send-button.

"Satisfied?" he asked mockingly.

"This is not about me, Sherlock. You said you needed to know more, Mycroft refuses to tell me anything, so what other way is there? Remember, he does care about you a lot. The two of you will find a way, I'm sure."

Sherlock's only response was a grunt.

The scrambled eggs on John's plate had gone cold, but as he hadn't been hungry anyway, he didn't mind. He got up from the chair and cleared the table. Sherlock was standing at the window again, watching the bustle outside 221B.

Without the slightest hint of surprise in his voice he remarked: "And there he is."

John, however, hadn't expected Mycroft so soon. The hint of a panicky feeling shot through his stomach. What should he do? Should he stay and listen to all that Mycroft had to say, knowing that he would almost certainly regret the additional knowledge later on? He was convinced that it would be hard to go back to normality with the knowledge of the cruel deeds that had been done to his flatmate and best friend. No, this was between Sherlock and Mycroft and should stay that way. If Sherlock decided otherwise later, so be it, but for the time being it would probably be better to leave the two to themselves, because as much as Sherlock trusted him, Mycroft probably didn't and he didn't want to be an obstacle in the long journey to the truth. He put the dishes in the sink - they would have to wait to be rinsed – and took his jacket from the hook.

"I'd better leave you alone - good luck. And don't get yourselves hurt or killed. Neither by words nor by deeds! Understood?"

Sherlock gave John a wry smile. He was uncomfortable, that was obvious, but he didn't try to make John stay. He hoped that a talk between the Holmes brothers could bring at least some improvement.

The ex-army man went down the stairs. In the hallway he met the older Holmes.

"I'm not going to reveal anything to him," Mycroft said determinedly without greeting John, his appearance reflecting the familiar aloofness.

John stepped in Mycroft's way, angrily pointing a finger at his chest and opening his mouth in preparation of a rant. Only the echo of Sherlock's begging not to tell Mycroft anything prevented him from bursting out that he should bloody rid himself of his pride and ridiculous oath. John was angry that Mycroft had let it get that far, raising all the destructive emotions in Sherlock but then neglecting him and refusing him the necessary support to get rid of them again.

John shook his head in resignation and let his finger drop, but locked eyes with the older Holmes, hissing sharply, "Help your brother, he needs you!" Then he stepped out of his way, passing him with a slight nod of his head. He hoped that the Holmes brothers wouldn't be too stubborn to have a proper and hopefully somehow healing talk. The doctor was aware of the fact that generally in a normal patient, psychiatric rehabilitation would take years, but he didn't know how Sherlock would react, what he would do. The only thing he was sure of was that he didn't have any other idea to help the detective out of his misery.

When he closed the door behind him, John realised that Mycroft must have hesitated, because only then did he hear his steps on the stairs.

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Next chapter will be up soon...


	6. Brothers

**Oh, wow! I was really overwhelmed by the feedback I got after I had pleaded for it. Thank you all so much!**

**Thank you for the very encouraging reviews, (in order of their posts) ****_LiveDragons_****, ****_ConsultingAngelWarlock_****, ****_TheWhoLockedSupernaturalist, UsagiRyo, Storylover 18, sohna, cim902, librarianmum, lizzie1250_**** (couldn't get back to you because I couldn't find you on FF), ****_KP777, Prothoe, Azzy97, RoadSoFar0301, Zacha_**** and ****_Thora_**** (You weren't logged in and there's more than one with your name or parts of it, so I wasn't sure)!**

**Thank you also for the PMs, favs and follows! You made me happy :-)**

**As many doubts as I may have had, I am extremely motivated to keep going now after the very positive response. Special thanks again to those I had already mentioned in the last chapter, this one wouldn't have been up without them.**

**As to some people's worries that this might be a death!fic. I understand your assumption as the prologue definitely looks like it, but – what would the world be without Sherlock?! Therefore, no, this is not going to be a death!fic, I can't read them and I definitely can't write them. If ever I wrote one, I would warn you in the summary, though.**

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Chapter 5

"Mycroft." Sherlock greeted his brother, although greeting wasn't probably the most suitable expression as it was more a statement, neutral and emotionless. At least it didn't hold any irritability or edginess.

"Sherlock," Mycroft responded to his brother in the same way.

If any stranger had witnessed this they wouldn't have had any clue as to the bonds that were tying these two men. They appeared to be distant acquaintances rather than siblings.

Sherlock was standing with his back to the window. He had felt the urge to lie down on the sofa, but had decided against it as it might have given the impression that he had rested himself on a psychiatrist's couch. Also, the sleeves of his dressing gown covered the gauze bandage on his wrist better when he kept his arms by his side. He had to be careful not to gesticulate too much while talking, which would demand a lot of concentration. Mycroft was almost as good an observer as he was himself, so it would be a tough task to hide the annoying result of his moment of mental derangement from his brother. _Why do I have to, though?_ Sherlock wondered in a very distant part of his subconscious. _Because we can't handle emotions and what comes with them_, was the bitter answer the back of his brain gave him.

Sherlock watched Mycroft attentively. The man in the ever-flawless three piece suit with the umbrella in his hand was standing seemingly indecisively in the living room, watching his brother quizzically.

"Now, …", he remarked, but let the sentence trail off.

"John forced me to text you." Sherlock explained.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Loyal John, yes. I should have known that it wasn't you in the first place who wanted to talk to me."

"What made you think I wanted to talk?" Sherlock asked, instantly condemning the stupidity of this remark.

Now Mycroft raised both his eyebrows in astonishment.

"The text saying – quote – _Let's talk._ – unquote - was sent from your mobile; and as in most cases the sender of a text is also its author and expresses their wish, I concluded that at least you consented to sending me the text," he explained mockingly.

This talk was as stupid as the idea of talking with Mycroft generally was. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John thinks it might help."

"I know, Sherlock, he paid me a visit earlier today, insisting that I should tell you what had happened during your abduction. I have already informed him that I'm not willing to tell him or you any of the details; and this is no matter of negotiation."

"But I need to know what happened!" Sherlock burst out, immediately regretting laying himself bare.

"There we go, little brother," Mycroft stated, his voice almost sounding satisfied. "It's not only John who wants you to talk with me, is it?"

Sherlock was watching his bare feet with a lot of interest, trying to think of a way out of this awkward situation. Yes, Mycroft was right, but it was so difficult to tell him so. That meant losing a point in a game of superiority that they weren't really aware of playing. If Sherlock had had another option he would have gone for it without hesitation. Everything was better than asking his brother for help. However, this time it seemed that he was completely dependent on him.

"Let's get this over with," he mumbled to himself, then raised his head, looking straight into his brother's expectant face.

"I have nightmares, Mycroft, and I want to get rid of them. They're killing me," he admitted sheepishly, however, the edginess in his voice clearly perceptible. This was giving in, something that he despised so much. He told himself that he didn't have a choice.

"The answer to the question you're surely about to ask is still 'no' and will stay 'no'. Nightmares won't kill you, they just need some time to go away."

Sherlock was glaring at his brother. Neither of them had moved so far.

"Then at least you and Tobias could have done it properly! If you had known your business, you would have deleted the accompanying emotions, too! I'd rather have died than being … _controlled _…by chemicals in my body that I can't get under control myself!" Sherlock spat in fury, gesticulating wildly without noticing that he was revealing the white fabric around his wrist.

Mycroft made a couple of long, quick strides towards his brother, throwing his umbrella on the floor angrily – something Sherlock had never witnessed before – and gripping his arm so fast and tight that the younger man wasn't able to wrest himself from the grasp. His arm was forced up so that the sleeve slid down and revealed the dressing.

Holding Sherlock's arm firmly, presenting it to both of them like a piece of evidence, Mycroft looked alternatingly between his brother's face and his wrist without saying a word.

Sherlock felt ashamed. This had been the last thing he had wanted to happen. Of course, it was just a dressing around his wrist, the reason for it wasn't immediately obvious, but Mycroft wasn't stupid.

"You did mean literally that they're killing you," he stated quietly without letting go of Sherlock.

The younger man didn't respond, but averted his gaze from his brother. In an attempt not to be forced to look at his wrist, he bent his head and focused his look on the scattered papers on the desk to his right. They couldn't help him out of this, unfortunately.

Very slowly Mycroft loosened his tight grip, but before letting go of the arm completely, he held it a split-second longer than necessary in almost a soft touch. Sherlock wasn't sure if that had just been a misperception; probably he wanted it to be one rather than being shown that his emotionless brother was moved by his weakness.

"I…, it wasn't… it's not…," Sherlock stuttered in order to explain to his brother that he hadn't attempted suicide, that it had just been an accident; but admitting that the emotions were so bad that he had wanted to deaden them by cutting himself wasn't much better than letting Mycroft believe he had tried to kill himself.

Mycroft had turned away from Sherlock, hesitating.

"I didn't have a choice, Sherlock, you must understand that," he said slowly without looking at the younger man, "and I don't have one now."

"Why? What in the world can hinder you from telling me what had happened in my life?! You keep making decisions about _my_ life, _my_ memories! I am grown up, Mycroft, an adult! I can decide myself what's good for me and what isn't! And right now I am very convinced that the best thing for me would be if you told me what had happened during my abduction to be able to delete the emotions alongside the memories myself properly; and afterwards it would be best for me if you left my flat and went to hell!"

On the last word Sherlock turned around determinedly, facing the window, his arms folded in front of his chest. When he glanced down he saw the white bandage making a strong contrast to his dark dressing gown. Although it was just a piece of cloth it was mocking him.

Bloody thing! Sherlock cursed inwardly and forcefully tried to get rid of it by tearing it from his wrist. When the dressing was loose the dark red blood-soaked gauze patch that had covered the wound fell to the floor and droplets of blood welled from the cut in the arm. Sherlock fidgeted with the rest of the bandage and in a swirl-around thrust it at Mycroft.

"Look at this! This is what the nightmares and the emotions do to me! Look at it, Mycroft!" the furious man shouted, holding up his wrist, the inside turned to his brother, the red cut distinctly visible. It wasn't clearly distinguishable, though, if it was fury or desperation that made Sherlock's voice tremble.

The older Holmes sighed deeply, then with heavy movements he slowly turned around. It seemed as if he was carrying a burden that threatened to bury him under its weight.

With a shock Sherlock realized that Mycroft's eyes were glistening with tears. He hadn't expected anything like that and he definitely didn't want to see it. He could cope with the resentment that accompanied each of their encounters, he could cope with Mycroft and him playing their little mean games that were part of their petty feud, he could also cope with Mycroft spying on him, trying to intimidate him or John, with Mycroft being absent entirely, but he wasn't at all prepared for Mycroft crying.

The revelation of his brother's emotions stopped Sherlock short. He didn't have any words, not even a snide remark.

Mycroft's mouth formed a choked "No", which was accompanied by a single tear running from his eye. He quickly averted his face from Sherlock, retrieved his umbrella from the floor and almost fled from the flat.

After Sherlock heard the front door being closed cautiously, he let escape a breath that he hadn't been aware of holding. Thoughts were welling up in his brain and he had difficulties in handling them, ordering them by importance, forgetting the least important. He was simply overwhelmed by thoughts and couldn't concentrate on a single one. He was exhausted, mentally and physically, but he had to do something, otherwise he would go mad before long, of that he was convinced.

_Text John._ Yes, that was a good idea. _Concentrate on an easy task._

The detective pulled his mobile from the pocket of his dressing gown. Only then did he realize that his hand was already covered in blood, the wound of the cut with the extremely sharp blade of a scalpel not having closed enough to stay dry without the protective dressing. He didn't care. He wiped his hand at his silk dressing gown carelessly and typed a text to John.

_Still alive. SH_

After just an instant, there was the _bing_ of the incoming text alert.

_Really or barely? JW_

What was the expected answer to that question, Sherlock wondered.

_Don't know. SH_

_As much as I usually want to have you admit that you don't know everything, it's not really a good answer to THAT question. JW_

_Did you talk? JW_

_Yes. SH_

_Good. JW_

_No. SH_

_Not good, then. He didn't tell you anything. JW_

_No. SH_

_What did he say? JW_

_No. SH_

_Assuming that the question to the answer NO was if he would tell you everything, I'm sorry. JW_

_Does that help? SH_

_No. You want me to come? JW_

_Bring Chinese take-away. SH_

_YES can be a difficult word, can't it? Two meals a day? Trying to break a record? JW_

_Yes. SH_

_So, fried noodles for you? JW_

_No. And yes, I want you to come. SH_

_On my way. JW_

Sherlock put the mobile back into the pocket. Texting John had calmed him a tiny bit and he had to admit to himself that the company of his flatmate was exactly what he needed now – and he needed someone to put a new dressing on his wrist. The bleeding was annoying and he already regretted having wiped his wrist at the soft silk garment. It would need a very good dry cleaner to get it out.

This was a very unimportant thought, Sherlock realized. So at least, he could think a little straight again. He gave in to what he had wanted to do when Mycroft came and curled up on the sofa, falling asleep right away.

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**My dear beta librarianmum's comment on this chapter: You've thrown down the gauntlet - Mycroft crying. *hehe* **

**So what do YOU think? :-)**


	7. Zombies

**THANK YOU for the great response to the last chapter! Obviously, I haven't started a war about Mycroft showing his emotions - phew! I'm glad you liked it. Your reviews really make my days :-) **

**To Ivanova: A review is constructive in itself insofar as it is extremely motivating, so any review is greatly appreaciated! Thanks! **

**I'm also very happy about the follows and favs! Each time my mobile goes *bing* and shows me a new e-mail saying someone has added me or my stories to their favourites or is following the story or even me (or, of course, has left a review or sent a PM) is like Christmas for me. I'm not sure how many of you are familiar with Cabin Pressure, but those who are might understand what I'm trying to say with this: BRILLIANT! :-))**

**So, here's a little more Mycroft. **

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Chapter 6

Mycroft hurried down the stairs and out of 221B, closing the door behind him cautiously. He didn't want to show how upset he really was, so he tried to refrain from slamming the door. He was glad that right in front of his brother's house he had his black limousine waiting. He opened the door and got into the back of it before his driver could attend to his duty. The latter shrugged, but didn't say anything. It was very rare that Mycroft ignored other people's duties, but when it happened, particularly after a visit to his brother, one did best not to comment on it. His men wouldn't dare anyway.

Mycroft sat in the soft leather seat, pursing his lips and attempting to hold back the tears that were still threatening to fall. He inhaled sharply and with a determined wipe of his hands over his face, banished the emotions that he was irritatingly hardly capable of controlling at the moment.

He didn't care. Caring was not an advantage. He could see people suffer, could even give the order to make people suffer without the blink of an eye. He had once been called the "Iceman" by that Adler-woman and she had been right, he was even a little proud of that reputation. It was always good in his job not to be emotionally vulnerable. As it wasn't just a job like an eight-hour office job but one that took his full attention all through the day, week, month, year and most likely entire life, he always had to be composed and attentive, ready to make the most important decisions. He _had_ to be emotionally cold.

However, Adler had been the only person in the world who had brought him to the edge of crying after his childhood days when he had had to realize that the work of years and years of planning and organizing had been destroyed within seconds because his brother had been driven by a strange fascination he had felt for that woman. He never admitted to that, but it had been obvious that that had been the closest to love Sherlock would ever get. Back then, Mycroft had felt as if somebody had pulled the rug from under his feet – and it had all been his own fault as he had initiated the contact between Irene Adler and Sherlock. Making a mistake that affected entire nations _was_ a reason to shed a tear, nothing else, though, should be one.

This, however, was completely different. Sherlock was, apart from their mother, the only person he really cared for. All the times he had had to help rescue him from whatever he had got himself into, had cut him to the quick, although he would never confess that openly. Apart from their natural inherited aloofness, the Holmes children had been taught quite forcefully, by their father mainly, that caring was a weakness.

He really wanted to help Sherlock this time, but he couldn't. It wasn't just the bloody oath that he had sworn to himself that he wouldn't speak about the events ever again, it was something that his friend Tobias had said to him when they had been about to access Sherlock's mind palace.

_"Never, ever tell him anything. Deleting memories is like hiding bodies in the cellar. They are zombies that must never be released from their incarceration or they will haunt you and kill you."_

Those had been the exact words his friend had used. Mycroft had been about to laugh at the warning of his friend until he had looked him in the eye and had seen that there was nothing funny about it. He had meant it.

Tobias had explained to him that this was all about cutting synaptic connections off, manipulating the flow of the neurotransmitters; it was like learning, just the other way round. The memories, however, were not really deleted, just inaccessible. In the construction of a mind palace the cellar was the place to put those memories that were no longer needed. Access to that space in the mind, however, was very difficult for an outside person as it were, so to say, the foundations of the entire construction. They had only been able to delete the memories, because Tobias had taught Sherlock how to create that mind palace, and, therefore, knew some of the keys to access it. He had been aware of the fact, that their work under such circumstances couldn't be as meticulous as it should have been, but they had had to try since there had been Sherlock's life at stake. As they had known that there might be a little hole in the concrete of the cellar ceiling because of that, they had to be careful with what Sherlock would get to know, because a tiny detail could function as an explosive to the whole ceiling and everything would come back instantly, causing uncontrolled release of neurotransmitters, faulty connections of synapses, which could result in cramps at best and insanity or the loss of vital functions if the worst came to the worst.

Sherlock had been in immediate danger far too often and Mycroft had condemned himself innumerable times that he had given in to telling his brother about his abduction at all. If only John hadn't been so admittedly clever as to make copies of the documents he had obtained from his German friend, which had shown the family coat of arms of the Holmes family and, therefore, revealed the connection between the Tabun poisoning and the Holmes. However, he wouldn't put Sherlock in real danger intentionally by telling him what had happened and possibly trigger a break-down of his mind-palace.

He desperately wanted to help his little brother, thus he had talked to a couple of people about what possibilities they had or which treatment would apply. The answers he had got, however, had been unsatisfying, sometimes rather annoyingly ignorant. Either the supposed specialists hadn't known anything about memorizing techniques and the consequences the deletion of memories might have, or they had suggested very long psychiatric rehabilitation, which was simply impossible to impose on Sherlock. They had tried it numerous times and the outcome had always been far from being successful.

Mycroft had tried to hide his helplessness in front of his brother by behaving just as he usually would, although it had cost him a lot of strength and he had finally laid himself bare as much as Sherlock had. When he had seen the dressing on Sherlock's wrist, he had felt as if his heart had been torn apart. Sherlock had a history of drug abuse and self-harm, but he had never tried to slash his wrists. Mycroft had known instantly that the bandage wasn't covering just the result of a silly accident that had happened during one of Sherlock's experiments. There had been something about Sherlock's posture, something in his eyes that had instantly told him that John had been right about his brother's impending mental meltdown. Although, he hadn't expected to find it had already taken place. Apparently, John had been there just in time. There had been a dressing to only one of Sherlock's wrists, so maybe the ex-army man had found him like that upon returning from the Diogenes Club.

Mycroft had to admit to himself that, although there still was some hostility in their dealings with each other, he and John had been pulling in the same direction. Although he had once doubted John's intentions and the reasons why the ex-army doctor put up with his difficult brother, he was grateful now that the persistent little man was so loyal and a very skilled doctor.

In the backseat of the car that glided through the London streets, the fading daylight being replaced by uncountable street lights and adverts that let the city never get fully dark, Mycroft made a decision: He had to find Tobias. They hadn't been in contact for more than 20 years, but for him, with all the access to any data he needed, it shouldn't be such a big task to find his former friend and seek advice from him. He was a genius himself, although without the sociopathic tendencies Sherlock displayed and he had already been very professional in the field of memory saving strategies at the age of 17. It was likely that he could help them.

The personified British Government took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders and raised his chin a bit. He had to compose himself as urgent business was waiting. However, what more urgent business could there be as the life and mental condition of his little brother?

* * *

I have no idea how, on a neurological level, the creation of a mind palace and the deletion of memories work. This is just my neurobiologically influenced idea of how it _could_ work. If there's anybody out there who knows more about it, just let me know! Thanks!


	8. Nightmare

**Thank you, those of you who kept reviewing loyally. You know, I love you! :-)**

**I'm also happy about the follows and favs - also thank you! **

**I had this chapter ready for a couple of days and decided to post it although I'm a bit busy at the moment, so I'm a tad behind with the next chapter. The more you motivate me, the more I'm willing to spend the nights writing ;-) **

**_librarianmum_****, thank you for revising this despite everything - you know what I mean - I'm thinking of you! **

**We're getting closer to the prologue...**

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* * *

Chapter 7

John was standing in the doorway to the living-room, the keys in his open hand after he had tossed and caught them in a somewhat anticipatory gesture, convinced he would find Sherlock pacing restlessly, locked in his room or doing anything that reflected his agitation. Instead the Consulting Detective was sound asleep on the sofa. He was lying on his side, facing the back of the sofa, the injured arm resting on his waist and hip. The doctor noticed that there was no bandage around the wrist anymore and that the part where it laid on the dressing gown was soaked with blood from the wound.

John shrugged off his jacket, hung it up and cautiously placed the keys on the kitchen table, avoiding making a loud noise that could wake his flatmate. He needed some sleep as he had slept very badly the past nights due to his nightmares. John retrieved the first aid kit, took a large patch of gauze from it and gingerly placed it under Sherlock's wrist, carefully lifting his arm just enough to get the cloth under it. Sherlock moved a bit under John's touch, but didn't wake.

They would speak about the talk between Mycroft and Sherlock later.

John didn't have any destination when he had left the flat earlier, so he had been wandering around the area close to Baker Street, mostly lost in thought. This was a difficult situation and John didn't have any idea how to improve it without Mycroft's help. The only thing he could imagine was to distract the Consulting Detective as much as possible to prevent him from allowing his emotions to take control over his brain. And yet, it was risky and might as well just backfire. John had thought of calling Lestrade to ask for some cold cases that could keep Sherlock busy for at least some time, although the doctor was convinced that his flatmate would need some more time to recover from his physical weakness caused by all the trauma Sherlock's body had gone through lately. However, he had to admit to himself that Sherlock's mental condition weakened his body and prevented it from healing entirely.

_Psychosomatic_, shot through his mind and he couldn't avoid a humourless chuckle. Sherlock suffering psychosomatically was a contradiction in itself – ridiculous. And yet…

John rested himself in his favourite armchair, resuming reading the book he had started. He hadn't got very far in it, because his thoughts had been wandering off repeatedly. He simply couldn't concentrate on the novel. Still, pretending to read, even if pretending to oneself, was better than simply doing nothing and staring at whatever there was to be stared at. Right now it would be Sherlock, but John felt a little uncomfortable watching his friend just for the sake of looking somewhere. Sherlock was really sensitive when it came to people scrutinizing him- up to a degree that he would probably even wake because he had the feeling somebody was piercing him with looks.

After an attempt to read a couple of lines that in the end were read three times and John still didn't know what they were about, he closed the book and put it aside.

He wondered why Mycroft hadn't obviously told Sherlock anything despite the fact that he knew that his brother needed his help. Could the abduction have been so cruel that a grown man wouldn't want to talk about it? Or was it possible that Mycroft was suffering from the knowledge about it so much that he simply couldn't speak about it? He would have to ask Sherlock when he woke up what impression he had.

Sherlock was moving on the sofa, whimpering quietly. He seemed to be on the verge of yet another nightmare and John thought it to be wise to wake him rather to let him go through another wave of incomprehensible emotions, so he gently shook his flatmate by his shoulder. Sherlock woke with a start, stretching out his free arm suddenly as if defending himself and accidentally punched his well-meaning friend in the face, hitting his nose and forehead hard. John stumbled a step backwards and condemned himself for being so inattentive not to realize that he might put himself in danger of what had just happened by bending over a man having a nightmare.

The waking man turned on his back, opening his eyes and looking wearily at his flatmate. His eyes became wide when he realized that John was covering his nose with his hand but a droplet of blood was soaking through.

"What happened to _you_?" he asked innocently.

"Oh, dothing, Sherlock, dou've dust 'it me."

"What? – Oh…" Realization came to the Consulting Detective. "I do sometimes want to punch you, just for the sake of the return of the unnecessary _second_ punch and putting a headlock on me – remember? - but I'd prefer to be awake when I do it, so that I can enjoy it." he informed his flatmate with the hint of a slightly embarrassed grin.

"Abology accebted." John answered. Sherlock hadn't hit him intentionally and it had been his own fault as well, so he could live with Sherlock's strangely humorous way of saying sorry.

In order to avoid the blood ruining the carpet (it had taken an entire day to remove the large dark spots that Sherlock had left with his nosebleed), John put his head back and headed for the bathroom.

Upon returning to the living-room, a tissue held under his nose, John found Sherlock sitting on the sofa, bent forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his forehead heavily leaning into his hands, a position that could express a lot: fatigue, sorrow, desperation, thoughtfulness… John was convinced that Sherlock was experiencing all of them.

The doctor positioned himself opposite Sherlock, the coffee-table between them. In a still slightly nasal voice he cautiously tried to question his flatmate.

"So Mycroft wasn't quite talkative, was he?"

Sherlock looked up at John, who was rather taken aback by the look in his eyes. He had noticed it before, right after Sherlock's "slip" with the scalpel: his eyes were somewhat tired –lifeless. Those nightmares were in fact killing Sherlock from the inside.

"No, he wasn't. He might as well have stayed away. It would have been the same result, which is nothing," Sherlock replied, a little annoyance in his voice. "I told you it wouldn't do any good."

"It was worth a try," John remarked, "Any idea why he doesn't want to tell you anything?"

Sherlock hesitated, then shook his head, finally taking down his arms, which had still been in the previous position, and stared at his hands.

John had noticed the moment when Sherlock had apparently pondered what he wanted to tell him. So there had been more than his friend was willing to tell him so far. He wouldn't try to push him though, would give him more time to open up.

"You want me to patch you up again? You're ruining your dressing gown entirely – and the sofa – if you keep bleeding on them."

"Does any of that make a difference? Who cares about whether there's a bloody blood spot on my clothing or on the sofa? Do you? You've seen so much blood that this tiny little bit won't upset you. Nothing matters!" Sherlock burst out.

John turned around wordlessly and left the room, only to return with the first aid kit after just an instant. With determined exaggeration he put it on the coffee-table in front of Sherlock, sat down next to him and, in a way that wouldn't allow any protest, put a new dressing on his flatmate's wrist.

"You matter, Sherlock," the doctor said quietly while pretending to concentrate on bandaging up the arm, although his skilled movements gave proof that he had done it innumerable times before and his hands were doing their work quite automatically. He felt the slightest movement of Sherlock's arm as if he wanted to free himself from John's grip, but obviously decided otherwise and left it where it was. He didn't say anything, though.

When John was finished, he stood from the sofa, grabbed the first aid kit and without looking at Sherlock's face ordered, "Get dressed. We're going for a walk."

Only now did Sherlock look at him. "Are we?"

"You need some fresh air and so do I, so get dressed."

"You've only just _returned_ from a walk!" Sherlock complained.

"Anyway, the air in here is stale as anything. Get dressed." With that he left for the bathroom to return the first aid kit, stomped to his armchair and flopped into it. "I'm waiting," he remarked impatiently.

He had to drag Sherlock out of the flat, no matter what. The Consulting Detective had to see something other than their four walls. While Sherlock was putting on his clothes, John texted Lestrade and asked if they could drop by to pick up some cold cases. There had to be some as Sherlock had been "out of action" for some time now. Maybe the Detective Inspector could find something interesting or even challenging for Sherlock to distract him.

After only a couple of minutes Sherlock returned fully dressed but with a grim look on his face. John hadn't expected such quick obedience from his flatmate and was rather pleased by it until Sherlock spoke.

"Walking around the city aimlessly is dull. We could just open the window and let some fresh air in."

"Who said anything about 'aimlessly'?"

"You said. You said 'going for a walk'. A walk is defined as a journey for pleasure without a distinct destination, so going for a walk is aimless and, therefore, boring, useless."

"As if we had never gone for a walk before! Now stop it and get your coat!"

John pushed himself from the armchair and in a long stride was at Sherlock's side, quite shoving him to the door, grabbing his coat and scarf and insistently putting them in his friend's arm. The tall man shrugged the woolen garment on, muttering, and listlessly following John down the stairs and out.

The grey London sky greeted them with a light drizzle. John raised his shoulders to his ears in discomfort, but didn't say anything. He was determined to spend at least a couple of minutes at the outsides before he would hail a taxi, which would take them to New Scotland Yard where DI Lestrade already had a case at the ready for the Consulting Detective. A promising one, he had said. He had wanted to contact Sherlock about it anyway, but was surprised that John had texted him so soon, because he had thought that the convalescence wasn't over.

The doctor hadn't said a word about his plans to Sherlock as he still wasn't fully sure about it and wanted to keep a way out if he saw that after some time of walking his friend would be too exhausted, and therefore, not able to work on a case, which always went along with physical and also mental exhaustion. Sherlock himself hadn't asked for work, which was definitely a matter of concern, because usually the Consulting Detective would react like an addict on withdrawal after just a couple of days, sometimes even a couple of hours without a new case. John _had _made it very clear, though, that he wouldn't let him work as long as he hadn't fully recovered, but that wasn't normally a reason for Sherlock not to do it anyway. The doctor really hoped that his scheme wasn't a dead end.

Sherlock turned up the collar of his coat and hid his hands in his pockets, grumbling and striding out so fast that John could hardly follow.

"You're jogging as if you were on the run, Sherlock. Could you, please, slow down a tad," John demanded slightly out of breath. "When I said 'go for a walk' I didn't mean 'run a marathon'."

Sherlock threw a quick and dark glance at his flatmate that clearly revealed his displeasure about their current activity.

"My legs are longer than yours, therefore my strides also. It's not my fault that your legs are so short."

John just shook his head about the remark, which was quite Sherlock-like and somehow reassuring in the sense that the Consulting Detective had found back into his usual, nonetheless hurting, way to state simple facts.

John suddenly stepped towards the kerb and hailed the taxi that was just passing them by. Sherlock stopped short, turning around to John, his head slightly bent and his eyebrows raised questioningly.

"_You_ wanted to go for a walk, so what's that then?"

"You aren't walking and it's not just because your legs are longer than mine that I can't keep up with you. You behave like a child, Sherlock. I'm just trying to help you, you know? But you have to let me help you! You asked for help, remember? Get in the taxi, I'll explain then," John said, opening the back door of the cab.

They both got into the taxi and John told the cabbie where they wanted to go.

"Thought so," Sherlock remarked with a hint of his usual arrogance.

"Shut up, I don't want to hear your deduction," John replied slightly annoyed, although inwardly he was quite pleased to hear Sherlock say something so normal for him.


	9. New Scotland Yard

**It's been a bit difficult recently to write something sensible. **

**Thanks to those who encouraged me by leaving reviews: ****_cim902, storylover18, Prothoe, TheWhoLockedSupernaturalist_**** and ****_Ani_**** (you weren't signed in, so I couldn't thank you personally). You are great!**

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**Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 8

Sherlock and John walked down the corridor to Lestrade's office. The officers they met in the hall scrutinized them with unconcealed curiosity. Apparently, it had become known that the Consulting Detective had gone through a lot lately, and even if they hadn't had the full story, Sherlock's frail appearance spoke for itself. John assumed they thought he had been seriously ill or injured, and he dreaded to think what the speculation might be. Sherlock didn't spread his venom as he would normally do in such a situation, but just went straight ahead, the tension that he was experiencing only visible in his tight face muscles. John was relieved that they didn't meet any of the familiar officers like Donovan or Anderson. Sherlock would be quite unpredictable in his reactions to any insult and John didn't want to be the one who had to be blamed for dragging his friend here only to have him run riots.

The taxi ride had been relatively quiet. John had started to explain his plan to Sherlock at one point, who had just dismissed his attempt to be helpful by turning away his head and watching the streets and Hyde Park pass by. John shook his head, pursing his lips subconsciously. Sherlock accepted his help insofar that he didn't refuse to go and see Lestrade, but he didn't say anything about what he thought about taking up work on a case. He wasn't excited or curious as he would normally be at the prospect of a promisingly unsolvable murder. Whatever was going on in the Consulting Detective's mind, he wouldn't share it. He only opened up in tiny bits when he lost control about himself; however, for John those bits spoke volumes.

Upon arriving in front of Lestrade's office, Sherlock didn't waste time in knocking at the door, he just rushed into the room, flopped into one of the leather chairs by the wall of the office, deliberately avoiding those in front of the DI's desk, and frankly asked, "What is it that you and your highly unprofessional lot here can't bring light to yourselves?"

Lestrade looked from Sherlock to John, who was still standing at the door, having shut it behind him. He shrugged, raising his eyebrows and nodding his greeting to the DI.

"Yeah, hello, Sherlock. Thanks for asking, I'm fine. And you?" the DI replied cynically, ignoring Sherlock's impoliteness regarding their professionalism. As John knew, he was used to it and generally didn't make much fuss. However, John didn't have to have Sherlock's powers of observation to see that Lestrade was slightly taken aback by the Consulting Detective's look. Looking at him now, John could see that Sherlock's face was cold, without any fascination or curiosity. Sherlock was much paler than he usually was, which John had thought was impossible, and thinner. Even the Belstaff coat couldn't hide that he was just bones and skin. John realised suddenly that Lestrade hadn't seen the younger man in a while because he hadn't had a chance to. He knew that Lestrade had tried to pay a couple of visits and had been informed by Mrs Hudson that on the first occasion they had both been in some undisclosed private clinic and that on the second visit, Sherlock hadn't been in a condition to be able to see any visitors. He supposed that he had become used to his friend's altered appearance and hadn't fully realised what the impact would be. He wondered, uneasily, what Lestrade made of the situation.

Sherlock stared at Lestrade for a moment, and John could almost see his mind turning over quickly, working out the implications. He was not used to Sherlock coming to the wrong conclusion, so he was shocked to see the Consulting Detective's pale cheeks flush with sudden anger as he burst out:

"Oh, you KNOW how I am; John has most certainly informed you about every detail of my health condition, so why bother with this palaver?"

"Sherlock!" John admonished his friend. "I haven't told him anything, have just asked for a case, so…"

"What haven't you told me, John?" Lestrade interrupted. "Sherlock?"

"Nothing of importance", Sherlock said hastily. "Now what's this case about that you can't solve?"

Greg and John exchanged quick glances and John nodded slightly.

"Right," the DI commenced, "we found a body two days ago, male, in his thirties. An old lady walking her dog found him in Paddington Street Gardens, Westminster, so just around the corner from your place."

"And…?" Sherlock probed impatiently.

"He was shot. It looks very unprofessional, though, as the calibre is a .22 short."

"What? So either an Olympic athlete has branched out or it's a recreational shooter. Who else would use such ammunition today?" John remarked, surprised.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You should update your knowledge on ammunition a bit, John. Even in the Olympic Games they don't use .22 short anymore. Well, shot from short distance then. Look for a sports shot, check the registered weapons and even you'll catch him easily. Why did you get me here for that?"

Sherlock got up from the chair and turned to leave.

"Now that you mention it, Sherlock, we'll check the weapon registrations. Not that it had crossed even our minds before…" Greg replied sarcastically. "There's something else about the body though."

"Which is…?"

"It's been branded. Post mortem. The ammunition hasn't brought us any further; it wasn't bought in Great Britain. The branding looks like a sign or a rune or something."

Greg shoved a couple of photos together on his desk and handed them over to Sherlock, who flicked through them quickly.

"You know who he is?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"No, not so far. He doesn't have a criminal record, nothing obvious."

"Hmm, … homeless," Sherlock mumbled, immersed in thought.

"Why that? I mean, why do you think so?" John questioned his friend.

"Look at the photos!" the Consulting Detective snapped. "He's not a criminal, he's homeless. There are marks on his back, caused by pressure and cold, from sleeping rough. Also, he suffered from poor blood circulation - an untreated heart disease, but not for very long. The beard isn't much more than a stubble, so he's still trying to keep up appearances as much as is possible for him. His clothes are dirty, but not quite ragged. His shoes don't look too worn. So, homeless he is, however not long-term. Cross check shooting clubs, and do DNA tests. I'll tell you who he is by tomorrow morning."

"What about the branding, Sherlock?" John asked. The tall man had already turned to leave, then turned around, making a funny face. "I have no idea. So far. Actually, I have twelve ideas, but it doesn't make sense to talk about them so far. It would just be too much effort to explain to you and eleven out of the twelve explanations would be in vain anyway. I'll tell you tomorrow."

With that he left the office and in his usual disdainful manner, walked down the corridor, leaving John behind.

"I got to rush, call you later, e-mail me the pictures, will you?" John said hastily before hurrying behind Sherlock.

Sherlock had already reached the end of the corridor and hurried down the stairs, John trying to follow him.

"Sherlock! Wait!", he yelled.

Neither did the addressed person stop nor did he react at all. The Consulting Detective just hurried down the stairs and out of the building, his coat flying behind him as if it also had problems in keeping up with its owner. Sherlock stopped at the kerb and raised a hand in order to hail a taxi. It was a mystery how he managed to get a free cab almost instantly and this one was almost about to pull into the London traffic when John reached it, managed to open the door just in time and threw himself on the backseat, grinning defiantly at the surprised driver.

"He doesn't have his money on him," he explained apologetically despite knowing it wasn't true and causing Sherlock to mutter angrily.

"'_Cause _I do! Even if I didn't, you'd be right behind and could pay the fare then."

"Isn't it ridiculous to pay for two taxis if we have the same destination?"

"Not when I have to think. So shut up if you want to finish this taxi ride in front of 221B and not somewhere on the way to it."

"Tss," was all John could say. He was used to Sherlock's moods, particularly when being on a case, but he hadn't expected his flatmate to be so cold. It was as if he took John's efforts for granted, without probably even noticing that they were efforts. At least if this case absorbed him, he wouldn't have to think about his emotions. And still, it was yet to show if it had been a good idea to get Sherlock back to work.

The rest of the taxi ride went in complete silence. Once the cabbie had made an attempt to start a cheery chat with them, which had resulted in a sheer endless flow of insults from Sherlock and the threat of the driver to get back to where they had come from to sue the Consulting Detective for his insults. Only thanks to John's diplomatic intervention and an extra, astronomically high tip John could have easily paid a second taxi with, were they taken to their destination.

Upon arriving at Baker Street, the ex-army doctor was exhausted and really doubted the suitability of his scheme. He also noticed that Sherlock was exhausted himself, climbing the stairs to their flat more slowly than was normal for him – actually most of the times he took two steps at once and now he only took one at a time. Also, John had secretly watched him pinching the bridge of his nose. Maybe he was suffering a headache. John decided to give Sherlock some Paracetamol before it got worse, although he was prepared for the younger man toreject them. If he didn't, it would be proof that he did have a terrible headache.

And so it was. After they had taken off their coat and jacket and Sherlock had flopped onto the sofa, John had got him a glass of water and two pills of paracetamol and his flatmate hadn't even complained or muttered, just said "good" and taken them.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" John wanted to know.

"Yes, John, why shouldn't I be?" he snapped back, "I'm just a bit dehydrated, just need some tea and I'll be fine."

It wasn't very likely that that was the case because John took meticulous care of Sherlock staying hydrated, but he didn't want to probe any further.

"I'll get you some tea, rest yourself."

"I don't need rest…," Sherlock mumbled, apparently already on the verge of sleep.

John grinned. "I know, Sherlock, I know." He headed for the kitchen in order to prepare a tea for himself and watch Sherlock sleeping – just to make sure he was ok.

After an hour of Sherlock quietly snoring and John drinking his tea and taking yet another attempt at reading his book, the Consulting Detective started to shift a little on the sofa, slightly moaning, the eyes behind the lids moving rapidly. John had just decided to wake him, albeit this time he would be more careful, when suddenly Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and a long "Ohhh!" escaped his mouth, signalling that he must have had an idea in his sleep, maybe a clue to the case.

"Give me the pictures," he ordered, sitting up on the sofa and stretching out a hand to John.

"I don't have them. You didn't take them with you, neither did I."

"We always have copies of the crime scene and body photos, so why not this time?" Sherlock wanted to know. He was the greatest deductionist on Earth, but the very simple and obvious facts could sometimes just slip through his perception.

"You ran away." John stated drily.

His flatmate gave him a strange look. "You should have waited for them and taken another taxi."

"Ah, shut up, Sherlock," the doctor interrupted his flatmate's rant. Enough was enough.

"Lestrade wanted to send me the pictures anyway. I'll check if he has already and print them out, _okay_?"

Sherlock stood from the sofa and started pacing the room right away. He pointed to the printer that was sitting on top of a pile of books next to the desk in the living-room.

"Then print!"

"Relax, Sherlock, whatever idea it is that you've had in your sleep, talk about it and it won't get lost. I'll print them as soon as I have them." While saying that he opened his laptop and checked his e-mails. He was relieved that Greg had been quick with sending the wanted photos. John connected his laptop to the Wi-Fi printer and double-clicked the print-button. The printer shook itself a couple of times before it made the regular sound of applying ink to the paper. After a short time John took the pictures out of the printer and handed them to Sherlock, who hadn't stopped his pacing.

He flicked through the printouts as if he was looking for a particular photo and suddenly stopped short, dropping all but one picture that he stared at, paralyzed.

"What? Sherlock? What is it?" John asked worriedly, crossing the room in long strides and trying to get a glimpse of the photo. Sherlock's hand sank so that the shorter man could see the picture, which showed the chest of the victim, pale with dark spots on it, the burnt traces of the branding building a revolting contrast to the dead flesh.

"Sherlock, the branding, is that really a rune?" John asked. "I always thought they were more angular."

Sherlock woke from his paralysis. "This is not a rune, John. If you know it already, why do you ask? Look at it! I mean, LOOK at it!"

John did what he was told, but couldn't see anything that would give him a clue as to what the sign was. It showed three curved lines in a row and one horizontal line. All lines reminded John of his Maths lessons; they looked like the integral signs, like the letter s with a stretched middle part. However, the actual curves were slightly angular. The horizontal line was another tilted stretched s that crossed the central vertical line in the middle and connected the outer vertical lines with its ends.

John shrugged his shoulders. "What is it then? I don't see anything."

Sherlock snorted disparagingly and looked at John.

"Same as ever. You're blind."

"Hang on, Sherlock, _you_ had obviously had this idea when you were asleep. So, how could I _possibly _have recognized anything in it earlier than you? I don't consider myself slow, but I didn't even get a proper chance to _look_ at the photos! Now what is it?"

"This is meant for me. -A warning. Most likely." Sherlock explained as if that was a simple fact and didn't worry him at all. However, his reaction had revealed that he was scared and that in turn sent a shudder down John's spine.

* * *

**Be kind and leave a little comment, will you? Thank you!**


	10. Ciphers

**At the beginning of this story I was complaining about the terrible weather, because it made one depressive. Now I'm complaining about the gorgeous weather, because it's impossible to sit inside and it's also impossible to write while sitting outside on the patio, because I can't see anything as my screen is one of those high-glossy- who-would-type-on-a-laptop-in-the-sun-anyway screens. So, sorry for the delays. :-)**

**Thank you for the encouraging reviews, ****_Guest_**** (I'm so happy that you liked the other stories, too, and I hope you'll enjoy the "rest" (we're not at the end) of it as well), ****_ConsultingAngelWarlock_****, ****_Prothoe_****, ****_cim902_****, ****_RoadSoFar0301_****, ****_Azzy97_****, ****_storylover18 _****and ****_librarianmum _****(no story without you! Thank you so much!).I'm always looking forward to them!**

**Thank you also for the follows and favs! I'm not sure if you would mind if I named you here. **

**All feedback is greatly appreciated! And now, read and enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 9

"WHAT?" John yelled, his voice shrill and almost cracking.

Sherlock snorted humourlessly, throwing the photo on the desk and taking a notepad and a biro from it. He held the paper close to his chest while drawing on it.

"It's not one sign. It's three," he mumbled. After a moment he presented his art work to John, who inhaled sharply.

The notepad showed a swastika, formed by the central vertical and the horizontal lines of the mysterious branding; an S, the first vertical line, and an H formed by the central, right and horizontal lines. It stroke John that it _was_ a possible breakdown of the four lines.

"A swastika! Why a bloody swastika?!" John exclaimed, although the answer was already creeping into his conscience. With dawning realization he slowly responded to his own question, looking at his flatmate intently. "A Nazi-symbol – it's a reference to the times when Tabun was invented, you think."

Sherlock just nodded.

"And an S and an H for Sherlock Holmes…." John's sentence trailed off. "Are you sure, Sherlock? I mean, couldn't there be a hundred other possibilities? Couldn't it just be another ancient Chinese figure system, any random cipher?"

"Ciphers on a dead body are never random."

"Ah, you know what I mean! Random in the sense of not meant for you!"

Sherlock put on his this-is-all-so-obvious look and took a deep breath.

"Somebody put the body right around the corner of 221B; he's not _someone_, nobody knows him, nobody misses him. The murderer didn't kill him because of himself. He just served as a useful body to put a cipher on. The perpetrator is neither a good shot nor a professional criminal going by the ammunition he used. The man was shot from short distance, but from behind. A professional always shoots from the front to make sure he succeeds. This shot, however, was more or less incidentally lethal. He must have lost a lot of blood before he died eventually. The killer had waited until the man was dead; only then did he apply the branding. Cowardice. That and the ammunition used prove that he's an amateur. Why should any amateur put so much effort in a killing, if not to make someone curious? If he had wanted to kill this particular person because he had had a feud with him, he would have done it secretly."

Sherlock had rattled off his deductions in his usual manner, the words fired like machine gun bullets, leaving trails in John's mind that altogether formed one word: Danger!

A little more slowly he added, "There _are_ other possibilities for putting the sign together, but they don't make sense. And this pretty much looks like kind regards from my enemy. People don't have enemies, you think? I have; an inherited enemy, so to say, who can't set foot on British soil, however, without signing their own death sentence, conducted by my dear brother. The ammunition wasn't purchased in Britain, and if we checked world-wide, I am absolutely sure we would find that it was bought where that particular family now live. This is a warning for me, John. However, something of such amateurishness can't be taken seriously!"

As if to conclude his speech Sherlock briefly raised his eyebrows and tilted his head just a little bit, looking provocatively at John, who didn't understand how his flatmate could just dismiss a threat to his life that he had just proven himself, with only a wink.

"Sherlock, that guy _did_ kill a man, so despite all his unprofessionalism, I do consider him dangerous. We have to call Lestrade and Mycroft."

"What for?" Sherlock asked mockingly.

"To protect you. If you are sure that everything is like you've just said…"

"Of course, I am, I wouldn't have said it otherwise!" Sherlock interrupted.

"… yes, so ,… I don't want that bloody recreational and obviously mad shot to succeed!" John finished his sentence, clenching his fists and staring angrily at his flatmate. He wasn't angry, though, he was scared.

"You are a crack shot, you are a thousand times better and faster shot than this amateur, you are trained to watch out for suspicious persons, movements, noises – so, what better person could there be to protect me than you?"

Sherlock gave John a smile that was obviously meant to be charming in a way, but didn't quite reach his eyes and failed its aim completely. Although John would normally have been flattered by the Consulting Detective's words, he was aware of the purpose they served, and therefore, they just bounced off him.

"Well, thanks for the acknowledgement, but you forget that I was trained in Kandahar, not really a place comparable to the streets of London, you know? This madman could be hiding _anywhere_ and I simply wouldn't be able to spot him unless I kept my finger on the trigger and shot everyone who came within lethal shooting distance of a sports gun. I really doubt that that's a good plan, Sherlock."

"You are better than that, John. We can tell Mycroft and Lestrade tomorrow. I just have to do some more research tonight among the homeless network and I'll be able to tell them who is threateningme, or at least who the dead man is."

"I'm not happy with that, but I assume that it doesn't make any difference. I'll take my gun with me and try not to shoot around me wildly, although that might take a lot of effort!" John put on a smile that was meant to hide his rising panic. This was entirely not good. He should probably inform at least Mycroft secretly, just to have some backup if needed.

He hesitated for a brief moment, then mumbling "…bathroom," absentmindedly, he turned around and headed to the aforementioned room, leaving a frowning Sherlock behind.

They didn't usually tell each other when they needed to use the bathroom, and John didn't normally leave what felt right in the middle of a talk, so Sherlock might be suspicious anyway, but John didn't care. He shut the door behind him and dropped heavily on the toilet lid, leaning over and breathing deeply to get his fear under control. He hoped so much that Sherlock was wrong, but he felt that he wasn't. Sherlock pretended to be indifferent, but that wasn't true. His reactions and his eyes proved him otherwise. John turned on the tap and hastily typed a text to Mycroft telling him that Sherlock was in danger and he needed extra surveillance – it felt ridiculous that he was asking for it now although he usually hated the constant feeling of being observed. He added that he would provide the older Holmes with more details the following day and Mycroft wasn't to tell his brother about the text. After all that had happened lately he could be sure that, although most likely they wouldn't notice anything, Mycroft would have his best people placed around 221B.

John put the mobile back into his pocket, splashed some water in his face, quickly wiped his face and hands with the towel and left the bathroom, hoping that Sherlock wouldn't be too suspicious and question him.

Surprisingly enough, the Consulting Detective had already put the kettle on and taken two mugs from the cupboard.

"Tea?" he asked.

John accepted the offer, a little surprised that Sherlock didn't want him to prepare the hot drinks, and dropped into his armchair. His mind was roiling and he couldn't understand why Sherlock could be so outwardly calm.

The younger man handed his flatmate the cuppa and went to the window with his own mug in his hand. While observing the traffic in Baker Street and taking small sips of the still burning hot tea, he suddenly asked, "What did you tell Lestrade?"

John looked up from his own tea to Sherlock, baffled. He hadn't expected that his flatmate would want to talk about his slip earlier that day at the Yard.

Sherlock was standing with his back to him, but John could see how tense he was.

"I told him nothing, honestly. He did check on you a couple of times, but I didn't tell him anything about your wrist and your mental condition."

"Mental condition…," Sherlock spat, "…that sounds as if I had gone mad."

"Mind you, Sherlock, your behaviour was a bit scary, to be honest." John told him, knowing that he was entering dangerous terrain. He didn't want the Consulting Detective to shut himself away again, now that he had started this conversation himself. He had to seize the moment to find out a bit more about the talk between Mycroft and his brother, so he added cautiously, "It seems you're a bit better now, aren't you?"

"It's… strange. I'm more scared of my emotions than I am of this ludicrous threat against me."

"I fully agree with that. That _is_ strange. What did Mycroft tell you, Sherlock?" John was fully aware of the fact that this was a walk on the edge of a cliff. A little gust of wind from the wrong direction would knock him off it and he would have a lot of trouble re-climbing it to the point where he was now. If Sherlock rejected him, it would become quite difficult to reach this stage of the talk again. It was, however, the perfect opportunityand who knew when it would come again?

Sherlock had turned around, but hesitated. His face was screwed up in what looked like concentration, which was quite atypical, because normally his face was rather relaxed when he concentrated on something.

"Nothing," he replied.

John didn't say anything, because he felt that "nothing" wouldn't stay "nothing". Sherlock's hesitancy had revealed that he was fighting an interior fight: the wish to open up and probably find some relief was struggling against his normal reserved self.

Sherlock was fidgeting with the mug in his hands, rubbing the porcelain with his thumb and circling his index finger around its rim.

"He… found out," he said.

John waited, just looked at his flatmate attentively.

"You were right, John. He's not stupid. I was, though, because I got myself into a fury and the sleeve didn't cover the bandage anymore. He knew right away what had happened. He thinks I wanted to kill myself."

The doctor frowned. "You didn't tell him?"

"Did _you_ believe me when I told you that it had just been an accident?"

John was slightly taken aback by Sherlock's question. It hadn't crossed his mind so far that he might doubt John's honesty.

"I did."

"I thought he wouldn't, so I let him believe what he wanted to believe."

"Sherlock, you must tell him. He's worried out of his wits, you know? It's not just his big-brother-compulsion to know what you are doing, he's afraid of losing you."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "He… cried," he said sheepishly, feeling obviously uncomfortable that this fact had finally slipped from his lips.

John almost choked on the sip of tea he had just taken. So that was why Sherlock hadn't wanted to tell him about the talk between the brothers. John had seen how Mycroft had been agitated by the numerous almost-losses of his brother, so he could very well imagine that even a cold and composed person like Mycroft might occasionally lose control over his emotions. A situation, however, in which two brothers united in their sentiment-is-a-chemical-defect attitude, were facing each other, the one right after an emotional breakdown and the other in the middle of one, would have made John chuckle if it hadn't all been so serious.

"It happens to all of us, Sherlock, and it's nothing to be ashamed of. It just shows how much he cares, you know? Believe it or not."

"I'd rather not believe it."

"That, dear friend, you have to explain, because I don't get it! Why do you still insist on the arch-enemy Mycroft thing?" John said with a hint of irritation in his voice.

"I… was perfectly fine, living on my own, apparently offending people with my … my way of stating the obvious facts. I got along with Mycroft. It wasn't in the sense that you would probably imagine what "getting along" means, but we were fine. It was just as it was. After years and years of trouble, things were settled. And then… "

"… then a limping ex-army doctor moved in with you and spoilt everything, eh?" John wasn't sure at all how he was supposed to understand what Sherlock was just telling him. Was he trying to say that he should move out? Was it his fault that the world of the oh-so clever and emotionally cold Consulting Detective had been turned upside-down? John realized that it _was_ his fault. He had been insisting on Sherlock dealing with sentiment, forcing him to empathize with people, to see what made them vulnerable, to try to understand it and, therefore, had pushed him off the emotional edge.

Sherlock ignored his flatmate's remark.

"… it's just that – that it's so confusing. It's like typing in a computer that only understands binary codes - ones and zeroes … you type in a row of twos and threes. It doesn't make sense and the computer doesn't know what to do with it, so it just says "error" – and that's how I feel with all this. I mean, the nightmares and Mycroft _caring_. I need ones and zeros, I can process them. This is… nonsense to me."

"Well, I _could_ try to talk in ones and zeros, but the message would probably be the same: Everyone sometimes struggles with emotions, Sherlock. You and me and also Mycroft. You might not want to see it and you might not like it, but you know the chemistry behind emotions, so there is nothing to suppress them – apart from probably some drugs that might be of temporary help. The only thing that really helps is to face them and try to cope with them. Talking is an excellent strategy to come to terms with emotions."

"… says someone who didn't tell his therapist a single word and had trust issues until the end?" Sherlock teased.

"Where the hell do you know that from, eh? Mycroft told you, didn't he? That bloody git!" John was furious.

"No. You told me your therapist advised you to write a blog, but you hadn't even started it when we met, so why didn't you? Trust issues. You didn't believe that what she told you would be true. And you didn't tell her anything; otherwise she might have been able to help you with your nightmares and your psychosomatic limp earlier."

John gritted his teeth. Damn, it; Sherlock had seen right through him from the very beginning, he should have been aware of it. He was, on the one hand, but sometimes it still surprised him how the younger man could read people like books, but wasn't able to even open the cover of his own book.

"Right. Yes, right." he replied, defeated. "What's your plan, Sherlock?"

The question earned him a frown and a brief shake of the head from the Consulting Detective.

"I thought I had sufficiently explained my plan. Spread some change among the homeless network and find out who the body and the shot are."

"No, no. I'm not talking about that. Although I think that your plan is not the best – but I have said that already. No, I'm talking about the nightmares, your emotional disaster."

Sherlock turned to the window again, the mug still in his hands. The tea was very likely already cold.

"Mycroft says he can't tell me anything," he said with suppressed anger, clenching his teeth.

"Yeah, he keeps telling me that, too." John stated, a little disappointed that apparently Mycroft stuck to what he had said to him: "Nothing in the world can make me tell him anything".

The Consulting Detective suddenly turned around, shouting. "What difference does it make, though, if he can't or doesn't want to, eh? The outcome is the same! If he does care so much for me, why doesn't he want to help me? It's just _words_, for goodness sake!"

"Maybe, Sherlock, it's more for him. You can't recall the abduction and the time after, but he at least knows about your state when you had returned home. It must have been a terrifying experience for him, don't forget that. Have you ever thought that it might probably be even more than words for you as well? I mean, I don't know. Maybe there is a reason why he can't tell you other than his stubbornness." John shrugged his shoulders. He didn't have the faintest idea why Mycroft didn't want to talk and insisted on it, even though he knew that his brother felt worse every passing day. Additionally, there had to be a reason why Mycroft of all people lost control over himself and cried in the presence of his brother. John was convinced that if he had had a choice he would rather have started a war in some part of the world than to admit to his brother that he was obviously deeply shaken by what he had gone through.

Sherlock stared at the older man. It seemed as if he was putting together rows and rows of ones and zeros that made sense to Sherlock.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked after some time when he found that his flatmate's absent-minded gaze was becoming a little odd.

"You… might be … right," he replied slowly.

"Right about what?"

Sherlock dropped onto the sofa, swinging his feet on the seat and steepling his fingers under his chin.

John didn't get any response to his question and he realized that it would be in vain to probe any further. The lanky man on the couch was already far away digging for particular memories in the depth of his mind palace. The doctor briefly shook his head and decided that it would be useful to rest a little as the night would be quite exhausting with contacting the homeless network and trying to find information on the dead man and his killer. He would clean and check his gun and take a nap to be fit later.

In the early evening John prepared a light curry for them and forced Sherlock to eat at least a little bit. The Consulting Detective behaved like a toddler when it came to eating – always up to anything but the ingestion of food. The whiff of normality, however, which came along with the eating-matter, felt somewhat reassuring for John. It was almost as if Sherlock was just on any case, refusing to eat while working on it, and not on this particular case that was probably set to have him as a victim in the end.

When night had fallen over London, Sherlock and John put on their coat and jacket and went down the stairs of 221b, heading for a hunt in the cold rain that was incessantly pouring down on the metropolis.


	11. A Shot in the Dark

**This is the last post before my holidays - sorry to leave you with a little cliffhanger for a while. Rest assured, the story isn't over! **

**Thank you, my loyal reviewers, ****_Prothoe_**** and ****_storylover18_**** (what would I be without the two of you?), ****_RoadSoFar0301_**** (I'm still beaming) and ****_Guest_**** (you know, I envy you sooo much for your monogram; unfotunately, as a German, I'm not allowed to use my monogram because of our terrible history. It's easy but a bit not good). **

**Thank you also those who have added this story to their favourites list and are following. It's nice to see the increasing number of favs and follows. Don't stop following after this chapter, the story has only just begun (well, more or less). **

**When I'm writing I frequently check ****_librarianmum_****'s "A Brit-picker's guide to writing Sherlock (or Britain in a nutshell)" - I strongly recommend reading it - it should be compulsory for all writers of Sherlock! Thank you, love, for your help! **

**Don't forget to tell me what you think, will you? **

* * *

Chapter 10

They looked like Long and Short, the two figures darting through London's streets. The tall one was wearing a long black coat, quite expensive-looking, and the shorter one was wearing a black parka. They occasionally talked to beggars or ragged-looking persons, homeless people, most likely. He hated them; scum they were, dirty and reeking of poverty, desperation and resignation. He loathed people who let their lives be taken from their hands. Someone had once told him that some of them chose to live in the streets, but that was bollocks. Nobody chose to sleep rough voluntarily. It was just their own fault that they had to. Nowadays people didn't know how to handle things, didn't know how to behave and didn't know how to convince others. Nobody would ever dare to threaten _him_ or to kick him out. He was a man, a real man. He was tough and loyal and powerful.

When his friends had contacted him to say that they had a little problem to solve, he had immediately agreed to help them. He had tried to find out why they had left Great Britain so hastily, leaving everything behind as if they had been in flight, but they hadn't told him anything. They had appealed to the good old times and to their friendship. Their grandfathers had served in World War II together and they had always been close friends. They had said that they had an old score to settle with a family called "Holmes". Yes, the name had rung a bell to him and he remembered the newspaper articles about the internet phenomenon Sherlock Holmes, the super-sleuth.

Finally, after years of only recreational shooting, as he hadn't been admitted to enter the army because of, as they said, psychological instability, he could prove his abilities as a shot. He had always dreamt of a military career, going to war, having power over others, but those damn military psychologists had cheated on him. He was convinced that they had tampered with his medical test results. They didn't want him and so they blamed it on his mental condition. They didn't know what good a man they were wasting.

He was glad that finally he got his chance; however, there had been a couple of problems. It was impossible for him to get a gun and ammunition without raising suspicions. He had tried to find ways to get one, but apparently he had talked to the wrong people. They had just looked him up and down and sent him away. He hadn't wanted to go on asking about as he was risking talking to a spy or something one day. He had to be careful, he was a spy himself and nobody would find out about him.

His friends had warned him that the tiniest mistake could be his final one. So, he had to take a gun from the shooting club and ask his clients, as he called his friends now, for ammunition for it. It was impossible to buy bullets without being registered. The ones he got from his clients, however, were untraceable, at least in Britain.

He had been instructed to first find a random person, shoot him and leave a note on the body. He didn't know why but he also hadn't asked. He was loyal, just as easy as that, he wouldn't ask questions. Contract Killers didn't ask questions, and he was one of them now. Plus, it had been his chance to get rid of at least one of those homeless rats. But he had had to find one who didn't have too many friends. He had been following different individuals of the trash and pretended that he was one of them; a disgusting task, but it had finally been rewarded with the perfect victim. The man had been from abroad, he couldn't remember where from, but didn't have any family who would miss him. He had been living in the streets for just a couple of weeks, had only recently lost his job and hadn't been able to afford his flat anymore. He still had tried to keep up appearances, but had been giving up on that, too. So, that had just been another of those "it-all-wasn't-my-fault-but-I-don't-know-how-to-ge t-out-of-this" roaches, who had better be removed from the streets of London.

It had been more difficult than he would have assumed to actually shoot a human being. His hand had been shaking and he had had to admit to himself that he couldn't kill him when looking him in the face. Therefore, he had waylaid him and shot him from behind. It had been a bit difficult, because a sports gun wasn't designed to kill and you had to be quite close to the person. Luckily, this one had chosen a quite lonely park for his night's rest, so he just had had to wait for him to pass by. And what a coincidence it had been that the park was just around the corner of the sleuth's flat! It hadn't been part of the instruction he had got, but he had thought it to be very clever.

After this bloody bugger of a victim had died eventually, he had had to apply the branding. He had taken a camping stove and a piece of metal in the shape of the long-stretched "S" that was attached to a stick. It had taken him a couple of days to prepare that tool and he had had to practise to heat the metal without burning the stick. He didn't have much time to do the branding, but it all had worked very well. Because of the cold and the quite icy rain, not a single other person had been in the park and he had been able to finish his work without any interruption or the need to move the body.

The smell of burnt flesh had been a bit revolting, but in the end he had found a strange pleasure in doing what he had done and he had developed the feeling that he wanted to repeat it. He was happy that he had been instructed to do it again. He had been a little sad that there had only been a tiny note in a daily newspaper about yet another dead homeless man, because there hadn't been any hints on what had killed him, even not on the branding. That had been annoying. Anyway, his next victim would raise a lot more public attention, which added to the thrill of the task. It was exciting to wait for the man to leave his home, to wait for the right moment. He had had to wait until the sleuth and his little fellow had been to the Yard. He wondered why that had been important. They had told him something about that the Met would most likely contact the detective. He didn't have the faintest idea why that was so important, but anyway, it had been fun – waiting in front of the Yard – in the centre of danger, but he was too clever for them to catch him. When the tall man and his short friend had left the Yard he knew that it was only a matter of days from then on until he could make his second strike.

If only his ex-wife could see him! That old bag had always wailed that he wasn't a real man – and how he had shown her that she had been wrong all the time! He had beaten the daylights out of her one day after she had pestered him once too often. And then she was gone, without any note. He had come back home and expected supper to be ready; instead he had only found the dishes scattered about the whole kitchen, her wardrobe all empty, no note left behind. He had thought she would come back anyway. She didn't have any money to go anywhere, she was dependent on him. And yet, she never returned. He had tried to find out if she was staying with her family in Scotland, but they didn't tell him a word. He had even gone there to drag her back home personally, but she hadn't been there. If it was up to him, she could go to hell anyway. He wouldn't be weak and rely on others. So he had started doing the household-things like washing and cleaning on his own, although he despised women's work. He was convinced that she wouldn't dare call him a sissy if she saw him now.

It was difficult to follow the two men as they were walking, sometimes zigzagging into small alleys that were inaccessible for cars. So he had to find a way around those. He had already lost them a couple of times, but had been lucky to find them again. He had to be extremely careful not to reveal his presence to the sleuth and his follower, who had been looking over his shoulder and scanning the area a thousand times. He was apparently very cautious. Did they knowthat they were being followed? But how? He hadn't asked many questions as his friends paid him very well. With that money he would be able to buy a woman from Asia who would be most willing to fulfil all his wishes.

This was the night when Sherlock Holmes was going to die and nothing could prevent that. The only annoying thing was that nobody had told him that the detective would be followed by this funny nervous puppet at all times. Therefore, he had to get rid of him, too. It didn't matter if the other man died or not, he wasn't paid to kill him, he just had to be out of his way.

When they had entered a particularly quiet road with just a few parking cars and no other pedestrians, he saw his chance. He released the safety catch of his gun and felt the butterflies of excitement fluttering in his stomach.

He had parked the car a couple of minutes ago when the two men had entered the road. He couldn't follow them in the car; that would be too obvious. He had thus sneaked around the corner a couple of times, always avoiding being in sight when the short man did his quite obsessive looking-around. The tall man, Holmes, was about to cross the street. The shorter one was still standing on the pavement, with apparently no intention of following the other one. That was the moment, his moment. He ran back to the car, fidgeted with the cables to short-circuit it, quickly pulled a woollen mask over his face and chuckled. The short man could be a witness, but what he would witness wouldn't help, because he himself was too smart. The car wasn't his; he had stolen it earlier this evening. He had been practising breaking into cars for a while but had never actually taken one before. He could imagine the owners of the cars he had been practising with. They had to have been furious discovering that someone had tampered with the car locks and the starter cables. He chuckled again. They should be more careful with their cars these days.

When he was finished with his job he would just dispose of the mask, get rid of the car and take the gun back to their clubhouse. Nobody would notice that it had been used for other purposes than for shooting at cut-out silhouettes.

He opened the electric windows in the front, floored the accelerator and enjoyed the sound of the screeching rubber of the tyres on the asphalt. He pulled around the corner into the street where the two men were turning around towards him. He couldn't see their faces as he had turned off the car lights. Only then did he notice the black limousine right behind him. It was too late. He had to finish now what he had started.

* * *

Earlier that evening

Sherlock and John strode through the streets of the metropolis, away from the busier parts of it. Here and there they talked to the Consulting Detective's contacts who took the notes Sherlock handed them. He could be sure that their efforts to find something out about the dead man and his murderer would remain unnoticed by anyone outside the network.

It was chilly and the rain had changed from a light drizzle into heavier, splashing drops that made a stay outside rather unpleasant. Apart from those who were forced to walk somewhere and hurried on their ways with their heads bowed to protect them from the icy rain, hardly any pedestrians were to be seen.

Although Sherlock and John felt the cold, too, they didn't pay any attention to it; they were fully absorbed in their activity.

Sherlock's knowledge of the tangle of London's streets was amazing. They went through streets which John had never seen before and, without taking a cab, managed to get quite a distance between Baker Street and their current location.

John had stored his loaded gun in the back of his trousers and his hand occasionally found its way there. It was little comfort to be armed without knowing who the enemy was. John couldn't avoid scanning the area all the time. One could easily develop persecution mania when associating with Sherlock Holmes.

When in a particularly deserted and gloomy road they had temporarily reduced the pace with which they were darting through the streets and alleys, John tried to find out what Sherlock thought about the idea that probably Mycroft's resistance to tell his brother about his abduction might have a deeper reason than just stubbornness or resentment.

Sherlock occasionally looked sideways at John while explaining his thoughts.

"Managing your memories is a bit like putting someone under hypnosis – it IS important to do it properly. If you don't do the hypnosis expertly, your client might not wake up again properly, might be stuck between sleep and wakefulness. If you try to get him out then, he might go insane.

If you delete memories and you don't do it properly, there's always the risk of their re-emergence. It might be delicate, although I doubt that there is a risk of going insane, I don't think so. I'm not sure, however, why, but Mycroft is carefully trying to avoid triggering that. Maybe there's more to it than just the abduction, maybe I might remember something he doesn't want me to recall."

"Oh, Sherlock! Do you still doubt Mycroft's good-will?" John stopped walking. How could he still not be convinced about his brother's caring? He was apparently still trying to ignore it, to get back to what his mind was willing and able to understand, back to his ones and zeros.

"As I said, I'm not sure," he said, turning away from his flatmate and crossing the street.

At that very moment a car shot around the corner of the street without its lights on. John felt his hair stay on end. He ran across the street, at the same time grabbing his gun from the belt of his trousers, but he was too slow. The car pulled slightly to the left and headed directly towards him. He could only manage to shoot randomly at the car's front window before he felt himself taken off the ground and for a moment everything went dark.

"Let him live," was his last thought before he crashed to the ground behind the car. He hadn't heard the popping sounds of the gunfire.

He struggled into consciousness and tried to sit up.

John's world stopped turning and shattered into millions of pieces.

He felt the cold rain on his head, running down his face and the droplets of water soaking his collar. His trousers were all wet and the cold was crawling up his legs, giving him goose-bumps. However, it wasn't just the cold from the rain and the chilly temperature, it was a gruesome cold clutching him, eating him up.

His hands were grazed from the concrete and he was vaguely aware of the burning sensation the wounds caused. He was numb, unable to move. His mouth opened and yet remained silent, the scream wanting to escape from deep inside him stuck in his throat.

Some droplets of rain dripped from his upper lip into his mouth. They didn't taste of water, though. Iron. Blood. There was blood in his mouth. He had apparently hit his head hard on the asphalt.

Everything hurt under the surface of the numbness, a dull pain that became stronger. It was strongest in his leg. He was sure it was broken. He was lying in the pouring rain – injured and broken - but did any of that matter?

John couldn't avert his gaze from Sherlock. The Consulting Detective was lying ashort distance away from him, the bullet hole in his head clearly visible even in the rain and the dark, a cruel black spot on the pale skin. There was a dark rivulet running from the hole, finally forming a small puddle under Sherlock's head. Raindrops splashed into the dark liquid. Sherlock's arms were extended and his coat was spread under him, giving him the surreal look of a dark angel fallen from the night sky.

He had failed. Failed to save his life. All the times in the past months that he had been able to save his friend's life had been in vain. The thought of it tore him apart. John took a deep breath and eventually screamed from the bottom of his heart and soul before darkness embraced him, the echo of his desperation reverberating in the street.

* * *

The killer had held on tight to the steering-wheel with his left hand, the gun in his right pointing out of the window. Apparently the short man had become suspicious as he had started running across the street towards Holmes, pulling something from the back of his trousers. Whatever it had been that he had been trying to grab, it wouldn't have helpedhim. He had pulled a little to the left and headed straight towards the short man who had obviously managed to get the wanted item from his back. With increasing fear he had realized that it had been a gun. Who the hell was that man? He hadn't had time to think about it any further when at the same time he fired his gun the five times the magazine held the bullets for and overran the other man with the car. He had got a quick glimpse of the quite surprised look on the face of the short man, however, there had been something else in them.

Only when he felt a sharp pain at the side of his throat did he realize that it had been determination that he had seen in the man's face. He didn't know if he had hit Holmes as it had been quite a lot to concentrate on, shooting the one and running the other one over at the same time. He only hoped that one of the bullets had hit its target.

The sharp pain increased and at the same time he felt tired, almost unable to drive the car. He hadn't been tired before, actually he had particularly taken care of sleeping enough as he knew it would be a long night. He tried to wipe away the stinging, but when he took away his hand from his neck he felt something warm and sticky on it. Blood! That bastard must have somehow managed to shoot him! He felt a weight settling in his body, his arms and legs becoming heavy. He lost control over the car and still in full speed crashed into one of the cars that were parking at the kerb. Not too bad, he thought before the airbags inflated and his head dropped forwards, his eyes open, but dead.

* * *

Their boss had instructed them to follow his younger brother on the foot and, in case anything suspicious happened, to intervene with all the necessary means. He hadn't left them in any doubts as to what would happen if they failed their task. They were members of MI6, especially trained for the surveillance and protection of important people, a bit like James Bonds. They took their jobs very seriously – of course they did, otherwise they wouldn't be part of the special forces, but it had been really hard to follow the younger Holmes and his friend, Dr Watson without being noticed.

In a fraction of a second they realized that they had made a mistake. They had seen the blue Vauxhall earlier, but there were hundreds of those on the streets, so they hadn't seen any danger coming from it. Only when suddenly the car had shot around the corner of the street where Holmes and Watson were, did they discover that they had failed in their task. Everything happened so incredibly fast that they only managed to jump out of the car and, while positioning their weapons to shoot the driver from behind, watch their careers at the MI6 go down the drain.

They watched Dr Watson aim his gun at the driver and shoot just the second before the car hit him and he was catapulted over the bonnet and the roof of the car, crashing on the asphalt behind the car. At the same time they saw the tell-tale lightning of gunfire flashing inside the car and heard the bangs of shots that echoed through the streets. The younger Holmes fell backwards like a hewed tree.

A second later the assailant's car collided with a parking car with an incredibly loud crash, after which it suddenly became deadly quiet in the street.

Despite the terrible collision with the car, Watson moved a bit first, then tried to sit up, looking at the younger Holmes. He suddenly screamed heart-rendingly before falling back unconscious.

The two agents made quick emergency calls before they ran the last couple of metres to the two bodies lying in the street, being soaked by the now pouring rain, their blood forming dark puddles under them that were, however, diluted and washed away by the water. Watson's leg stood in an unnatural angle and he was most likely seriously injured - but alive. Sherlock Holmes, however, was dead.


	12. Guardian Angel

**It was so great to read all your comments! Forgive me the cliffhangers, there's another one ahead. **

**I'm sorry that I haven't managed to get back to all my reviewers so far. I'm still on holidays and the only way to post something is via my mobile, which is really annoying. Rest assured, though, that I will reply.**

**To publish something is a challenge, which I took, because we had to extend our holidays (that's a long story; just this much: my little daughter turned on the tap and I didn't notice. When I returned home after shopping with her we had a waterfall in the house. It's more or less uninhabitable for another couple of days) and the next post will take a long while. **

**Thank you so much for reviewing: **_**Pulcherrima**_**, **_**TheWhoLockedSupernaturalist**_**, **_**Azzy97**_**, **_**Brendee**_** (Guest) (I can't reach you otherwise, so THANK YOU for your support! I'm so happy you like my stories!), **_**RoadSoFar0301**_**, **_**storylover18**_**, **_**lizeluja**_**, **_**Prothoe**_** (any crisps left?), **_**Guest**_** (I take it OMG is a good reaction **** - thanks for telling me!), **_**Guest (SH)**_** (Did you catch your breath? You might need it again... I'm glad you're aware of what I had made clear at the beginning;-)), **_**lizzie 1250**_**, **_**tahmtahm**_**, **_**Catie501**_**.**

**Thank you also so very much for the favs and follows! You folks are great! **

**Thank you for your midnight work, **_**librarianmum**_** – I know exactly what you're talking about! **

**Now, before my waffle gets longer than the chapter itself, here it is, short, but... enjoy!**

**NOTE: The great cover for this story was made by Rephis. I'm really excited about it, but it is a pity that it doesn't show completely here, so go check out the original picture at rephis. deviantart. com (without spaces). Thank you so much for it! It's just brilliant to have a cover that was particularly made for Shot in the Dark!**

* * *

**Chapter 12**

People were gathering in the street and some windows in the houses were lit now, displaying the silhouettes of anonymous onlookers who had been woken by the noise in the street. The patter of the rain mixed with the murmuring of the bystanders.

After only a couple of minutes a black car, followed by a lorry and a van turned into the street and suddenly it was quite crowded. Agents in black told the spectators to leave and circled the bodies of the two persons lying on the ground. From the other side of the road another lorry and a recovery vehicle entered the street and more people in black gathered, moving about, working like insects – a complete muddle at first glance, but very effective at the second one. While all traces of the destroyed cars disappeared, two medical teams took care of the injured men.

Suddenly, an exclamation of surprise could be heard. The emergency doctor who had checked Sherlock's vitals out of routine hadn't expected what he found – a flat but steady pulse. The obvious bullet hole in his head had led them to believe that their boss's brother could only be dead.

"Good Lord! He's alive! HE'S ALIVE! Quick! He needs oxygen!"

An oxygen mask was placed on his face and Sherlock Holmes was extremely carefully lifted onto a stretcher, his head fixated with a surgical collar to avoid any movement of the bullet, which could immediately lead to the patient's death. Nobody knew where the bullet was. It was clear, though, that it hadn't left Sherlock's skull as there was no visible exit wound. It was a miracle that the young man _was_ alive, but it had yet to be found out to what extent that was true, that is which parts of his brain had been damaged.

The stretcher was lifted into the lorry that was outfitted with no less medical equipment than an intensive care unit would provide.

Dr Watson was gingerly lifted onto a vacuum mattress and then onto a stretcher by the second medical team. After such a collision with a car it was likely that not only he was suffering from the obvious broken leg but maybe also from vertebra injuries. Every movement was risky. His vital signs weren't good and the fight for his life would be tough and they had to be fast as internal bleeding was most probable. Luckily, the lorry offered all medical technology that all the necessary examination in advance of a surgery could already be done on the journey to the clinic and the patient could immediately be operated upon arrival at the theatre.

A moment before the lorry was about to leave, another black limousine entered the road and stopped directly next to the large vehicle. A man quickly climbed from it and ran to the back door of the HGV. There was a perceptible tension among the agents after their boss had arrived.

When the emergency call had reached Mycroft, he had felt something icy settle in his guts. He had done everything in advance that had been in his power to protect his little brother – had he really failed this time? After he had received John's text about the body and the veiled threat against his brother, he had taken all possible precautions that he was capable of. The only additional thing he could have done would have been to take him in protective custody and that would have been unimaginable for a reason. John had sent him a text that Sherlock didn't want him to ask for protection, and if that was the case nothing in the world but violence could make him accept help.

He had been taken to the place of disaster as fast as possible – he wanted to be at his brother's side. Of course, there was also John Watson. Although there was always a little tension when they were dealing with each other, he had to admit to himself that he had taken him to his heart a little bit. Thus, he was worrying about two people's lives now.

Inside the lorry, the medical teams were each working hand in hand, intubating the two men, starting the ventilation, placing the IVs and administering numerous fluids and drugs before putting the portable examination gadgets in position in order to find out about the patients' injuries.

On Sherlock's side, everyone was looking at the x-ray screen as if spellbound. The skull's inside didn't show a bullet, instead the frontal bone a few centimetres above the eye revealed a bright spot in the grey shapes of the skull's x-ray – the projectile.

"Good Lord! You must be very close friends with the guardian angels, however, you must have annoyed them recently or you'd already be one of them!" the doctor in charge exclaimed. He turned to Mycroft, who was silently observing the entire procedure.

"Mr Holmes, Sir, this happens only once, if at all, in a doctor's lifetime. Your brother was incredibly lucky. The shot must have been fired by a complete amateur; he used a sports gun calibre that can only kill from quite short distance anyway. It would probably have killed him if he had aimed better, but the bullet's velocity was too weak to enter the skull's inside at exactly this spot. It's lodged in the bone. We have to be very careful, though, because of an imminent head trauma. We'll prepare him now for surgery and will remove the projectile. If there aren't any complications, he'll survive."

Mycroft stared at the medical man, clutching to a rail that ran through the middle of the lorry's roof, unable to say anything. His heart was racing, his hands were cold and sweaty; he started shivering from relief. Sherlock was alive and that was everything that counted.

With a slightly trembling voice he asked, "Any permanent damage?"

"We can't say, yet. It depends on the grade of the head trauma."

The doctor looked at Mycroft intently. His boss looked very pale and was swaying slightly; due to the mild rocking of the moving vehicle or because he wasn't feeling well, he couldn't say.

"Sir, are you ok?"

Mycroft wiped his face. "Yes, yes, I'm ok. What about Dr Watson?"

He turned towards the other medical team, who were working at John's side. They were doing an ultrasound of his abdomen and, although Mycroft didn't know very much about how to interpret the pictures the gadget showed, he could see that this wasn't good. There was too much white, almost everything was white.

"Severe internal bleeding," one of the doctors stated. "Indeterminable location. Tell the driver to speed up, inform operating theatre. Before we can take care of the broken leg, we have to find the reason for the bleeding."

Mycroft's heart sank when suddenly he heard the heart monitor make its constant beeping that told of a cardiac arrest.

* * *

He was toddling over a meadow towards his smiling and laughing mum and dad, the grass was swaying in the wind and tickling his legs. With every step it seemed to become shorter - no, he was becoming taller. He wasn't running towards his parents but after a girl. She turned around, pulling faces and calling him funny names – Harry… that was Harriet. He had almost caught her when suddenly she transformed into a pastor, who stepped towards him, pointing at the two fresh graves and expressing his sympathy on his parents' death. The graves were somehow melting, becoming brown, the fresh flowers turning into stones. The tombs opened miraculously and he could look inside them. A soldier with a terrible hole at the side of his head was waving at him. He tried to avert his gaze when all of a sudden the soldier's hair grew longer, became black and curly and his face took on a familiar look. This was the most important person in his life after his parents. This was Sherlock. However, something was wrong. The skull wasn't shattered like the soldier's head had been, but there was a dark spot on his forehead, a bullet hole. Sherlock didn't move. He was dead – and therefore John was dead, too. He remembered pain, a lot of pain, and realized that there was no pain now. That was good, he felt peaceful, the memories of all the pain in his life were fading. He was fading – and he welcomed it. There was no one in his world anymore worth enduring the pain for.


	13. Don't go!

**You may have noticed that Shot in the Dark and Dangerous Mould have just recently got a cover. The two fabulous pictures were especially made for these two stories by the great _Rephis_! Unfortunately, the pictures don't show entirely here, so go, have a proper look a them at rephis. deviantart. com (without spaces, of course). Thank you so much for them!**

**I was kindly reminded by the same Rephis, that in my introductions I always forget to say thank you to all those who read the stories quietly. Apologies! Of course, I notice that in the traffic stats and I appreciate it a lot, but, yeah, Rephis, you're right: Thank you to all readers - no matter if you leave traces or not!  
**

**As always, I'm really happy about all the encouraging reviews and the half-quiet readers who follow and favourite the story (I know, there is no such verb). **

**The reason why you can read this chapter is that _librarianmum_ encouraged me to publish it as it is. If it had been to myself, I would have dumped it - at least the first section. I _dreamt _it after she had told me about someone who really had such a near-death experience. **

**Enjoy!  
**

* * *

**Chapter 13**

_"Am I dead?"_

"Not yet."

_"Why not?"_

"You tell me."

_"Don't know. Because of you? But you're dead."_

"I'm not."

_"You are. That guy wanted to kill you. So this is death. Heaven?"_

"No. I'm on the side of the angels, but I'm not one of them."

_"Hell then?"_

"You're a good man, we wouldn't meet in hell."

_"Something in between then. And now?"_

"Don't go."

_"You did."_

"No. You thought, but you were wrong. That man _wanted_ to kill me, but didn't."

_"You're alive?"_

"Yes."

_"What is this here?"_

"A little chat. Don't go."

_"A chat? I'm almost dead – I _can't_ chat. What the bloody hell ...ehm...or whatever... is it? That's _me_ down there - I can see myself down there! What are they doing?! What the...! I can see you too! I see the hole in your head. You're almost dead, too. This isn't a chat! Tell me what this is!"_

"Don't go."

_"Go where? Why do you keep telling me that? I'm fine, better than I've ever been."_

"Don't leave me alone, John."

_"Why can we talk when we're almost dead?"_

"It's your blood in my veins."

_"That's ridiculous! Since when are you a mystic?! You're the most... down-to-earth person I know!"_

"You might have noticed that this is not really down on earth. Don't go."

_"You pester like a child."_

"Don't go, John."

_"Go where? I don't understand this!"_

"Please, don't go."

_"Will you keep quiet if I don't?" _

"I promise."

_"Sherlock Holmes never promises anything to anybody."_

"I do now. Don't go."

_"I have no idea where I should go anyway. Why can't we stay here? It's quite comfy here, nothing hurts, everything just feels... light."_

"You can't stay here. Either you go or you come back. Don't go."

_"Come back? From where? Go where? You really should express yourself a bit more clearly."_

"Just don't go. Do it for me."

_"I have no idea what you're talking about, so… just for the sake of you keeping quiet, I won't..."_

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeep. Beep. Beep. Beep…

On both sides of the lorry there was hectic turmoil. Mycroft was still standing in the middle, his presence as the British Government forgotten by everyone else, his eyes alternately darting between Sherlock and John.

They had tried to resuscitate John unsuccessfully first when suddenly Sherlock's blood pressure had dropped dangerously and for a couple of seconds his heart, too, stopped beating. However, before they were able to defibrillate him, the heart monitor showed the electric impulse of the heart muscle depolarisation again and resumed its constant beeping.

Mycroft release a breath he hadn't known he had been holding and sighed with relief when suddenly from John's side also the irregular but clear sound of life could be heard – beep... beep...

He felt as if the sounds of the hectically working doctors and nurses only reached his ears dully and slowly; he seemed to have tuned out everything but the crucial sounds of the two heart monitors. Mycroft felt dizzy and his ears were roaring. With some effort he managed to proceed hand over hand along the rail to a seat at the back ofthe lorry and let himself drop into it. How often now had he been worrying about his brother's life? And now John! He was used to enduring a lot, but even for him things had simply got too much. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Sir, are you sure, you're alright?" the doctor, who had asked him about his well-being before, wanted to know.

"I'm not in immediate danger, so just go and take care of those who need you!" Mycroft snapped, slowly opening his eyes and looking wearily at the doctor, who had already turned around to attend to the duties he had just been reminded of in quite an unfriendly manner.

Mycroft didn't regret what he had said, although he sensed that his reaction had been slightly inappropriate. He was the boss, he didn't have to be friendly, but he was usually calm at least and wouldn't normally allow himself to talk to anybody without looking at them. He was, however, tired of being composed. For once in his life, he only wanted to be a worried brother and friend and England could go wherever it wanted!

When they finally arrived at the clinic, the two victims were instantly taken to the operating theatres and Mycroft followed the cluster of medical staff some distance, knowing that he wouldn't be allowed to access the sterile area anyway and would have to wait outside.

A nurse accompanied him to a private waiting room that was especially designed for the very few persons of the British Government who would send patients to this clinic at all. It was a luxurious room with white leather armchairs and sofa, a high glossy, white cabinet at the wall, a white coffee table and a matching side table between the sofa and one of the armchairs. The crystal glasses that stood upside-down on a green glass tablet on the cabinet signalled that inside there would be some alcohol of the stronger kind. Above the piece of furniture there was a huge television screen attached to the green wall, which was the only colour beside the white. The vases were all white, the lilies and roses in them white, too, resembling the same contrast as the furniture and the wallpaper. One side of the room was completely covered with a high glossy surface with just a few vertical and horizontal lines in it. If Mycroft hadn't known that it contained a built-in wardrobe and a bed, he wouldn't have been able to guess from the surface. In the back of his mind he briefly contemplated whether the linen was green, too.

He wrinkled his nose about the too modern and rather sterile atmosphere of the room. He would have preferred the heavy, dark, but rather cosy atmosphere of his own rooms – or even the mess of Sherlock's flat as he felt somewhat forlorn in his current location.

He stood in the room, alone, not knowing whether he should pace it or sit down. He was one of the most powerful persons in England and he was used to solving every possible problem with no more than a few keys pushed on his mobile phone and a few commands given. _He_ was the one pulling the strings and he knew that everything would always be sorted out in the end since an entire country with all its means followed his well-considered commands. He worked perfectly well under stress – just as John Watson did - and yet, this time it was completely different. His hands were trembling in the light of the knowledge that whatever he did or said, the outcome would always be the same: his brother and his friend would live or die, and he could do nothing at all about it but wait – and probably and strangely enough for him, pray.

He was still standing at the same spot, unable to move, the weight of his sorrow nailing his feet to the floor. For the first time in years Mycroft realized that he was a lonely man. He was never bored, always busy with doing what England requested, he simply didn't have time to think about his personal life. He even enjoyed being on his own, sitting by the fire place and having a glass of fine whiskey. And yet, in this very moment, he longed for company, for a friend he could trust and rely on, even for a shoulder to cry on - and for the first time he really understood what John Watson was for Sherlock.


	14. Forty per cent

**I'm so sorry it took me ages to post this chapter. I'm still very busy with the renovations of our house after the flood.**

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* * *

Mycroft waited some long hours; worry turning into impatience, impatience turning into fear and fear turning into desperation. Every once in a while a nurse entered the room after knocking cautiously at the door, informing him about the on-going operations of Sherlock and John and offering him drinks, food and whatever else he might need. Apart from a mere glass of water, Mycroft refused everything, being unable to even think about the profanity of eating while his brother and his friend were fighting for their lives.

He had finally sat down in one of the armchairs, staring at the green wall with the flat screen attached to it, his gaze, however, turned inwards. At some point he must have dozed off, because when he woke with a start, a nurse and a doctor were standing in front of him by the armchair and he hadn't noticed them coming in. He gave the two a puzzled look.

"Apologies, Sir. We thought you might want to be informed instantly in case of any news."

Mycroft blinked his eyes a few times to chase away the sleep and to find his bearings. He sat up from his slumped position and signalled the doctor with a nod to fill him in.

"Sir, we were able to remove the bullet from your brother's skull successfully. Fortunately, it, so to say, just scratched the surface. The dura is still intact. If that projectile had hit his head in just a tiny different angle or at a different place, it would probably have killed him instantly. He's not out of immediate danger, though, as the impact of the bullet and the fall backwards caused a grade two brain trauma. Standard procedure requires analgosedation, so he won't be responsive until we can be sure that the intracranial pressure doesn't increase. He's attached to permanent EEG and we had to insert an intraventricular catheter, just in case."

Mycroft looked at the doctor quizzically. He knew a lot more about medicine than most people thought he would, but these explanations were unintelligible for his brain working in slow-motion.

"That is...?" he probed, stifling a yawn. It had been a hard night.

"He's in a drug-induced coma and we had to insert a catheter to his brain as well as electrodes on the dura. It is possible that swelling or bleeding may occur, so with the catheter and the EEG we can immediately diagnose any change and reduce the pressure in the brain."

Mycroft sighed. "I see. – Will he be alright? I mean, what's the worst outcome?"

"Erm, what do you mean?"

"Will he be the same as before when he wakes up?"

The doctor hesitated. "Chances are about forty per cent."

Mycroft jumped from the armchair, his eyes wide open. "Forty percent?! What about the other sixty per cent? What do they mean?"

"According to statistics, sixty per cent of patients with a grade two brain injury suffer from minor to major disabilities after recovery. You... you have to be aware of the possibility, though, that there is still a severe risk of complications which can inevitably change the current state and can even result in death."

All colour vanished from Mycroft's face and he suddenly felt his knees buckle. He dropped back into the armchair, burying his head in his hands.

After a couple of seconds he looked up to the doctor, his eyes glistening treacherously.

"He wouldn't want to live with his brain damaged. It's ... - you wouldn't understand it anyway. Do everything that is possible and necessary to avoid damage! Everything!"

"Of course, Sir."

"No, you don't understand. Everything!"

Mycroft looked intently at the doctor, who endured and returned the look with unspoken understanding. The man in white shook his head briefly.

"I'm afraid, Sir, there is nothing of that sort we could do." He turned to leave, the nurse following him.

"Don't you get incredibly high amounts of money to fund your research? Why isn't there anything you could do?" the older Holmes burst out, even though he knew that that would only alleviate his desperation, without really helping his brother.

The doctor sighed, then turned to leave, the nurse following him. "I'm sorry. We're doing our best."

Mycroft closed his eyes for a second, then remarked quietly, "I know. - What about Dr Watson?"

The doctor turned around again, the door handle already in his hand.

"We're still fighting for his life. My colleague will come soon and tell you the details. It doesn't look too good, though."

Mycroft sat back in his armchair, closing his eyes and sighing deeply. Something had gone terribly wrong. Sherlock and John had been under maximum surveillance and it was simply inexplicable how this bastard had been able to shoot the one and run over the other!

As many people as he could muster were already investigating the case, but he himself couldn't think about it right now. His mind was blocked by, curiously enough, sentiment: Sorrow, fear, hatred, sadness, disappointment, anger, scorn - all of which had never before hit him that hard.

"Can I see my brother?" he croaked.

"If you want to follow me, Sir, I can bring you to the ICU. But... be prepared. It's always a shock for family members to see their loved ones in an induced coma with all the equipment."

"I'll manage", Mycroft replied, although he wasn't entirely sure of it himself. He felt somewhat weak and his legs were slightly shaking when he stood from the armchair.

The older Holmes straightened his shoulders, blanked his facial expression and followed the doctor down the corridor to the ICU. In an anteroom he put on the obligatory sterile gown and protector for the shoes and hair. He had to disinfect his hands and put on rubber gloves. The nurse who had assisted him told him that he didn't have to worry. They just had to be very careful because due to the intravetricular catheter, and the, therefore, open blood-brain barrier, it had to be strictly avoided to let any germs enter the ICU.

Mycroft felt strange and helpless in his disguise. When finally the door to the ICU slid open, he was overwhelmed by these feelings the sight of his little brother surrounded by innumerable machines and attached to innumerable tubes and cables.

He swallowed down the "Oh my God" that had almost slipped off his tongue and stepped towards Sherlock's bed. The head of his bed was slightly lifted so that he was lying bare-chested in a half-sitting position. His eyes were closed and he didn't really seem to be alive. Only the beeping of the heart monitor and the hissing of the mechanical ventilation showed that he was indeed.

Sherlock's head was partially covered in a net cap that held two dressings in position; one at the side of his skull, from which a small tube was running, and one over his left eye. His mouth was held slightly open by a mouthpiece for the endotracheal tube that supplied him with oxygen. On his chest there were the already familiar electrodes for the heart monitor. What caused Mycroft waves of nausea were the numerous cables that stuck out of Sherlock's upper skull. He gasped in shock.

The nurse had noticed his reaction and touched him at the arm soothingly.

"It looks worse than it is. That's the intracranial EEG. To be able to control his brain activity at all times we inserted electrodes under the surface of the skull bone on top of the dura mater."

Mycroft deeply inhaled and exhaled a couple of times to fight the urge to vomit, which had not become much better after the nurse's explanation.

The latter pointed to a stool by the bedside, on which the speechless man let himself sink thankfully. He raised his hand to touch his brother, but let it hover above his arm since he didn't dare place it somewhere for fear that he could do any harm to his ill-treated body or affect any of the tubes and cables that held him alive.

The nurse took his rubber-gloved hand and gingerly placed it on Sherlock's arm.

"It's good that he knows that you're there."

"I hope so," Mycroft whispered with stifled tears. He looked down at his hand on Sherlock's forearm. Even there were a tube from the IV and a cable for the intra-arterial blood pressure testing. It had been long years since one of the Holmes brothers had touched the other one out of compassion or in a soothing gesture. It felt odd and yet familiar – and it was the only thing Mycroft could do.

Sherlock was so still, all the energy that he was normally radiating having vanished completely; a fact that distressed Mycroft even more than the drips and apparatus. Even though he had often found it unnerving that Sherlock was such an energetic person, who never could sit still or simply do nothing, he missed just that right now. Sherlock was only really alive when he was in motion - and he even was when he was in his mind palace- the quietest moments one could experience with Sherlock. Mycroft sighed.

Obviously the nurse either didn't know who he was, or she didn't care about people's rank, when she tenderly and reassuringly squeezed the shoulder of one of the most powerful Britons and encouraged him to talk to Sherlock as it would help him heal despite the fact that the coma was drug-induced and he would most likely not perceive much of it anyway. Then she left.

Mycroft sat there, his hand on his brother's pale, yet warm skin, which he started stroking with his thumb gingerly. He didn't know what to say. For so many years all their talks had been filled with resentment and cynicism; the last brotherly exchange he remembered had been in the morgue the Christmas Day when, supposedly, Irene Adler had died.

"You know, my little brother, we haven't always been like this. We were once good friends, you remember?" He paused, feeling a bit silly about talking this way. And still, it was what he really wanted to tell Sherlock. It had slowly emerged on the surface of his thoughts during the times his brother's life had been in immediate danger. He didn't want to end up with regrets one day when it was too late to say it.

"I've always cared about you as much as my innate stony heart allowed me to. We only became cold after your abduction. Things had changed from one day to the next and we two had built our protective walls. Nevertheless, I've always...," he turned around, checking the room to see if anybody could hear him, then whispered, "... always loved ... my little brother."

Mycroft felt his cheeks blush with embarrassment. Damn, it was his brother, so it should be a natural thing to express your affection! Other people did so too! Yes, other people, but they weren't like other people. The older Holmes was relieved that nobody had heard him – and that he had finally said it.

"Please, Sherlock, fight! Will you?"

Mycroft looked up to Sherlock's face. There was no movement behind the eyes, no reaction at all. The skin looked waxen and strange. The black curls had partially been shaved where the EEG cables stuck out from his head. The sight made Mycroft cringe.

Suddenly there was the sound of the door to the ICU sliding open and Mycroft let go of Sherlock, turning around to see who it was. A doctor was standing in the entrance, shaking his head ever so slightly. Mycroft shivered.


	15. Phone calls

**My dear ones, I'm so sorry. (I can't write any exclamation marks as my keyboard is broken since I had a liqueur while typing this chapter)**

**Life's just too busy at the moment and I'm publishing this in a bit of a rush. It took me so incredibly long to come up with a new chapter because I simply don't have any time to write - and when I get a few lines written, they're crap. I'm so glad I have my lovely beta who points her finger on it. So, here you are, the hopefully crap-free version of the next chapter. **

**I promise, the next chapter won't take that long. **

**Thank you, all of you (imagine the exclamation marks)**

**To SH: Du könntest Deine Reviews in der Tat auf Deutsch schreiben, aber das wäre wirklich schade für alle anderen - die sind nämlich immer so erfrischend. :-)) Und da ich mir die Mühe mache, diesen Kram auf Englisch zu schreiben, erwarte ich, dass du dir die Mühe machst, auf Englisch zu reviewen ;-))) NRW grüßt...?**

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Mycroft stood up from the stool, unable to hide his fear of the news the doctor had for him. The latter shook his head more determinedly; then a faint hint of a smile appeared on his face.

"Mr Holmes, it's unbelievable how lucky your brother was, and how much Doctor Watson and he clung to their lives. Although we didn't have much hope for Dr Watson, he has made it so far. We had to fight with the blood pressure drops and two more cardiac arrests, but he's alive for now and we were able to stop the haemorrhage. It seems that his soul wants to stay on earth, but his body isn't really convinced of it. The internal bleeding could have killed him easily, but it didn't, which is quite a wonder considering its severity."

Mycroft stared at the doctor disbelievingly, his words sinking in only slowly. A veil of worry had blurred his perception and had led him to misinterpret the doctor's slight shake of the head. John was alive! He sighed, closing his eyes in relief. He was surprised about the extent to which emotions were able to influence one's thoughts. He needed to resume his objective thinking to be able to work decently.

"I'm... glad", he managed to say. "What about his other injuries, the leg?"

"Well, there is an open multiple fracture of the tibia and fibula of the left leg. We had to fixate it externally. We hope that there won't be any complications that could result in a limp."

Mycroft snorted, which evoked a puzzled look in the doctor.

"My apologies. This, however, holds a kind of paradoxical humour. I suppose you have not read Dr Watson's entire medical record. Otherwise you would know that he had had a limp already, even though it was psychosomatic. I imagine he would be able to live with it as he is used to it – somehow."

The doctor raised his eyebrows in reaction to the slightly cruel humour of his opposite number, but didn't comment on it. He cleared his throat and went on.

"Erm, yes. The leg isn't the worst of the problems. As I said, he suffered from severe internal bleeding from a spleen rupture and, what is worse, a rupture of the liver. We had to remove a part of the liver, but were able to keep the spleen since not the entire blood circulation was interrupted. Dr Watson is a trained military man, which may have saved his life. He knew how to fall and did so instinctively, therefore, he only suffers from a severe concussion instead of a fractured skull. He's bruised all over and there is a serious contusion of his left shoulder, but it's not broken."

"Good – that's good. Are there any complications to be expected from the organ damage?"

"Internal bleeding is always a dangerous thing and sepsis is a comparatively common complication. We're closely monitoring the spleen and liver functions and can only hope that they don't fail. He's administered antibiotics in high doses, but that's pretty much all we can do right now besides waiting."

Mycroft nodded his understanding. "Where is he?"

"We'll bring him in here soon. He'll also be sedated for a couple of days to reinforce the healing."

"I see", the older Holmes replied. He felt awkward. He wasn't used to dealing with people who were completely helpless and unresponsive and even though there had been those moments of sentiment, he fought against being pushed into a nursing role for both Sherlock and John. He would take care of them as well as he could, but there were other people who would be much better in the nursing role. John would call them his friends – and even Sherlock had done so lately, so he would inform Mrs Hudson, Molly Hooper and DI Lestrade – and, if necessary, Harriet Watson. He wasn't all that sure about the latter. She had been under surveillance for quite a time now, and all they had found out about her was that apparently after she and her partner had split up, she spent most of her day drinking in different shabby pubs before staggering home in the late evenings, many a times too drunk to get the key into the lock of her tiny and run-down flat. He knew that John and Harriet didn't have the closest relationship – and that was pretty much an understatement – but in the event that John wouldn't survive this, it was his duty to call her and to bring her here. He would only call her, though, when things became serious as he was convinced that her absence would be of a bigger help than her presence.

Only moments later the door to the ICU opened again and another hospital bed was rolled in. This was the second time Mycroft had both his brother and John in the same hospital room, unconscious. However, last time, after the Tabun poisoning, both their conditions had been more stable and the immediate danger had mostly been over. Seeing the two flatmates by each other's sides, deathly pale, surgical wounds spread over their bodies, attached to all the intensive care apparatus including ventilation, was a really distressing sight, even for Mycroft. The lizarov-apparatus, that fixated John's fractured bones externally, stuck out from a ridiculously swollen leg, the shiny metal contrasting with the disinfectant-red skin in a rather revolting way. Mycroft felt unsure about whether he should step up to John, but after some seconds of indecisive contemplation he pulled himself together, walked over to the ex-army man's bed and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You'll make it, John. Don't give up." He hesitatingly and gingerly patted the warm skin once, then turned to leave and call the others.

When he left the mansion that accommodated the hospital, night had already given way to bright daylight. After the constant rain of the past days the rays of sunshine that broke through the grey gave a little warmth that finally gave proof of the delayed spring. The ground was still wet from the rain, which made it sparkle from the sunlight here and there. Mycroft pulled his silver pocket watch from the vest of his three-piece suit, a movement that was as natural as walking to him, and was surprised that it was already after midday. The operations had taken an incredibly long time. He felt the fatigue settling in his brain, but as much as he longed for a rest right now, he couldn't give in to it as there were numerous duties to be fulfilled.

His black limousine had been waiting for him and drove up to the entrance now in order to pick him up. He waited until the chauffeur had opened the back door for him, however, only to take his umbrella that had been leaning against the back seat.

"Pick me up in half an hour. I want to walk a bit."

There was no need to tell his driver where he was supposed to meet his employer, he would find him.

Mycroft had instructed the hospital staff to inform him instantly of any changes to the men's conditions, but before he was able to call their friends, he needed to get some fresh air. It wasn't typical of him to hesitate before telling somebody unpleasant facts, but this was just different. He had to clear his mind of the emotions that had simply overwhelmed him since last night. So he walked slowly down the street, his umbrella clicking a lackadaisical rhythm on the pavement.

After walking for a while Mycroft sat down on a bench by a tree, fishing his phone from his pocket and simply staring at it. It would be hard for the old lady that was Sherlock's landlady and for a particular reason even a grandmotherly figure for his brother, to hear that "her boys", as he had heard her call the two men, had been severely injured and were still in danger of losing their lives. He would send her one of his agents to check on her and to pick her up.

Mycroft wasn't convinced that Lestrade was actually a friend of Sherlock's, but he had to have a word with him about the assault anyway. There had to be something special about Lestrade, though, since Sherlock spent a fair amount of time with the DI, solving crimes for him. His brother wouldn't bother wasting time sitting in his office and waiting to be filled in on a case by a rather slow-minded policeman, if there wasn't any trace of friendship. Plus, he had to admit that the DI took Sherlock's antics better than most other people did, apart from those he was about to call or were sharing Sherlock's fate.

Molly Hooper would most likely take it worst and would make a big fuss. When he had met her weeks ago to question her about the source of the poisoned petri-dish and had told her the white lie of Sherlock and John lying low with a Noro infection due to a petri-dish that had been delivered by an errand boy from Barts, she had been running around in her laboratory like a headless chicken, stuttering and asking him over and over if she could do anything, before she had finally calmed down a bit and managed to talk to him without her tongue slipping in every second sentence.

Only when the black car pulled up to Mycroft, did he eventually dial Mrs Hudson's number.

"Mrs Hudson? This is Mycroft Holmes speaking."

Silence.

"Are you with me?" Mycroft probed.

"What happened? Good God, Mr Holmes, it can only mean bad news when you call me - and you sound... worried!" she finally replied.

He hadn't been aware of the fact that he did sound worried – he had only introduced the talk, not even said anything further -, but in the light of what he was going to tell the old woman there was no need to lie to her about his feelings. So he told her what had happened without hiding his sorrow. Apart from a couple of exclamations of the "Good Lord"- kind she remained relatively calm, although her voice became a little hoarse. Stifled tears, Mycroft thought.

Lestrade's reaction was rather professional. Mycroft had the impression that he simply was too much of a professional to let his emotions get the better of him. The silent pause after the description of the incident, however, had shown him that the DI was indeed also shocked.

Molly Hooper's reaction, however, was completely unexpected to Mycroft for he had been prepared to find her quite agitated. As opposed to last time, she was all composed and just wanted to know if she could be of any help. Only the fact that her questions and answers were rather whispered than spoken in a normal tone hinted on the turmoil in her. Mycroft didn't know her so well. She was a bit of a mouse both in her behaviour and her appearance, but he wasn't actually able to judge her; however, what he had to bear in mind was the fact that she was used to seeing injured people – although the ones that she saw were mostly beyond the line of immediate danger and would be cut up by her anyway. Therefore, she had to be a bit of a tough cookie as well. She was apparently a bit like John Watson: the more stress one put on her, the calmer she got - or his words simply hadn't sunk in so far.

After the calls, Mycroft felt less relieved to have other people in charge of nursing Sherlock and John than he had expected. Strangely enough, he felt somewhat drawn back to the hospital, but for the sake of England, he had to go back to his office to at least delegate the most pressing businesses. And yet, for the first time in his entire life, he made a decision that simply came from the bottom of his heart and wasn't influenced by reason. In fact, it was entirely against reason as he hadn't been available for more than twelve hours now, which usually was unimaginable. This time, however, England had to survive without him for another couple of hours. He would stay at least so long until the three persons he was awaiting had arrived and he had talked to his brother and John's friends personally.


	16. Mrs Hudson & Molly

**Heya (I still have to copy and paste my exclamation marks)! I was a tad faster with this chapter than with the last one, but still not as fast as I would have loved to be, sorry. **

**Thank you all for reading, commenting, following and favouriting!**

**Thank you for your reviews on chapters 14 and 15, Rephis, librarianmum, storylover18, Azzy97, Catie501, foxeeflame, OwlSky15678, TheWhoLockedSupernaturalist, Prothoe, Guest SH and Guest.**

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**Mitteilung für SH am Ende des Kapitels..  
**

* * *

Mycroft had been sitting in a chair between the two ICU beds, doing nothing, which felt extremely strange for him. He wasn't allowed to turn on his mobile, didn't want to read any tabloids and couldn't talk to the unconscious men - he didn't know what to say. He wondered what normal people told their unconscious relatives or friends – of course, people in general had normal professions that would provide them with anecdotes they could share, which he definitely couldn't. Telling the two state secrets would probably not be all that risky as they wouldn't know anything about them when they woke up, but Mycroft still wasn't tempted to give them away. They were secrets, not to be told to anyone. So he just waited.

Mrs Hudson was the first to arrive. When the automatic door to the ICU opened, Mycroft would have felt a strange urge to giggle at the sight of the short woman in the green gown with the ridiculous cover for her hair and shoes, had he not been aware of the fact that he looked pretty much the same and had it not been obvious from the expression on her face that she was in complete shock at the sight of Sherlock and John.

She covered her mouth with her hands to obviously avoid a shriek, then took in a ragged breath, tears welling from her eyes and trickling down the wrinkles of her face that told of happy as well as hard times.

Mycroft rose from his chair and approached Mrs Hudson when all of a sudden she stepped forward and embraced the baffled man. Due to his tallness she rather hugged his waist, his arms forced to his side by the tight clutch of the surprisingly strong elderly lady. He cleared his throat, his eyebrows raised in a mixture of embarrassment and astonishment. Mrs Hudson loosened her embrace, eventually letting go of the older Holmes completely, stepping a little backwards until she had brought a more comfortable distance between them.

"Oh, dear! I... I'm so sorry, Mr Holmes, it's just so... awful!" she staggered in a high pitch with her voice almost failing her. Her cheeks were still wet, but after her impulsive reaction she seemed to have returned to a slightly more composed state.

"It's alright, Mrs Hudson, in the light of the events it is, I assume, acceptable that you overreacted a bit," Mycroft stated, causing Mrs Hudson to furrow her brow in dismay, straightening her back and inhaling deeply.

"Overreacted?! Mr Holmes, at least I did react! I don't know how you manage to display such inappropriate heartlessness! Is it possible that I misperceived your worry entirely when we spoke on the phone?" the old lady scolded indignantly.

The addressed man was slightly taken aback – due to his inability to deal with people's emotions, let alone with his own, he had pulled himself together and resumed his usual behaviour. He hadn't really meant to offend his brother's landlady – it was just the way he was, the way he felt safe with. However, it seemed that Mrs Hudson's nerves were hanging on a silken thread.

"Apologies," he mumbled.

She continued to glare at him for a moment before her eyes softened and she nodded briefly, clasping her hands in front of her chest. Possibly close proximity to his brother had prepared her for occasional examples of apparent heartlessness. As if his behaviour had reminded her of Sherlock, she tilted her head in the direction of the two beds and whispered, "Can I... go to them? Can they hear us?"

"I don't know if they can hear us, but I was told that talking to them might... be useful."

"Useful?" she asked, obviously newly outraged.

"Help them recover," Mycroft corrected himself, sensing that "useful" had apparently sounded somewhat cold.

Mrs Hudson looked at the older Holmes intently, then nodded slightly. Mycroft had seen the trace of fresh disapproval in her glance. Gosh, that woman could be somewhat intimidating! He wondered what he was supposed to do, what Sherlock's landlady expected of him. Although he had experienced unfamiliar emotions lately, he would never be a sentiment-driven human being, it just wasn't his nature. It was one thing to reveal his inner self to his brother, but it was an entirely different thing to do that in front of strangers.

Rather hesitatingly, Mrs Hudson went to Sherlock's bed first, wringing her hands helplessly.

She just stood at the bottom of the bed for a while, watching the still man, her shoulders shaking ever so slightly from time to time. She was apparently sobbing quietly. Mycroft couldn't see her face, but her body language wasn't too difficult to read. After some time she wiped her face, stepped up to the side of Sherlock's bed and gingerly took his limp hand in hers.

"I feared something like this would happen sooner or later, Sherlock! Why do you always have to chase those ... bloody criminals? They do get put out by you snooping around in their business. I told you it wasn't decent to just consider everything a game! But Sherlock – don't... let me have to rent the flat to somebody else, will you? Don't!" Her voice broke and Mycroft could see the tears running down her face again.

She walked around the bed to John's side and in the same way like before took the ex-army man's hand in her own cautiously. She quietly supressed some sobs.

"You... you... shouldn't have gone with him. I knew you wanted to protect him, but, John, if only there had been someone to protect you!"

Suddenly, she let go of John's hand, turning around slowly and piercing Mycroft with an accusing look.

"You should have protected them, Mr Holmes! Don't you have your men everywhere?! Why weren't they there when your brother and John needed them? Tell me that!"

Mycroft cleared his throat in exasperation. How dare she!

"Mrs Hudson! As much as I tolerate and even appreciate your worry about my brother and his fellow soldier, don't you think that this is none of your business? Don't even dare to think that I neglected my duties in keeping a careful eye on my brother! Perhaps the next time I need surveillance for him, I'll engage you for it, shall I?"

She looked at him with a tear-stained face, eventually lowering her gaze. "I'm so sorry, Mycroft, I – just can't believe that this has happened! Forgive me."

The aristocratic man ignored the fact that Mrs Hudson had just called him by his first name. She was older than him, but he was in a position of considerable authority and was not used to people using his first name casually, whoever they were. He didn't feel like suggesting that she use his first name officially, so he made no comment.

With a nod of his head he signalled his acceptance of her apology.

"What can I do?" she wanted to know.

"They will remain in the induced coma for a couple of days and they need someone to talk to them, to read out a book to them, provide them with gossip or whatever. I thought you and Ms Hooper were the perfect choice for this task."

"Mycroft Holmes! This is your brother! Don't you think you would be the perfect choice for it? Don't you think England could manage some time without you?!"

"In fact, it has already for more than fourteen hours, and – with all due respect to my subordinates – no, I don't think so."

"You are a cold-hearted man, Mr Holmes! Shame on you!"

"Now, now, Mrs Hudson. Don't forget yourself! You'd better think twice before jumping to wrong conclusions. I feel it's time for you to leave now. You'll be taken home and picked up tomorrow at eight in the morning. Be ready. Good bye."

With that he literally pushed her out of the door to the anteroom where a nurse helped her take off the ICU clothes and led her outside.

Old women could be exhausting. And yet, seen from her angle, she wasn't that wrong; but Mycroft had no intention of adjusting her image of him.

Only shortly after Mrs Hudson had left, Molly could be heard chattering in the anteroom before she entered the ICU.

"I have just met Mrs Hudson and she was quite upset... uhm... – Good Lord!"

At the sight of Sherlock and John Molly stopped short. She stood there, the baggy trousers peeping out from the ICU gown, the stout shoes complementing her unflattering look. Mycroft wondered how such a highly-educated woman could never have developed any sense of dressing well rather than just comfortably and practically. In fact, the people she was dealing with all day long never complained about her look as most of her clothes were covered by her white gown, almost like now, and the people were dead anyway. If ever she intended to attract anybody, which obviously she had been trying with Sherlock, she would have to attend a seminar on how to dress properly. Mycroft knew she didn't come from a posh background, fought her way up – or rather down – to become a pathologist, but hadn't her parents ever taught her how to look after her appearance just a little bit? He and Sherlock had always been used to wearing tailored suits and shirts as a flawless appearance had been one of the highest principles in the Holmes house. He had despised it when he had been very young, dreading the reprimand that inevitably followed playing outside, but these days he almost felt uncomfortable with his suit jacket taken off.

What on earth was wrong with him? What did it matter how Ms Hooper dressed while Sherlock and John were lying close to death? He shook himself mentally and focused on the pathologist, forcing a small smile.

"Good day, Ms Hooper."

Molly's hands, that she had been kneading a fold of the green cloth with, dropped to her sides, her gaze fixed on Sherlock and John.

"They look so dead. – Err,... no, sorry,... I didn't mean..., no. I know they're not, but they're just so... pale and lifeless. – Not lifeless, motionless, that's it. Motionless, yes."

She briefly threw a glimpse at Mycroft, not bothering to greet him properly. She went to John's bed, looked him up and down, her hand hovering just above his skin as if she was sensing something with it. She finally placed it on an electrode-free spot on his chest, closing her eyes for a second.

Mycroft watched her, intrigued by her strange behaviour.

With a rather determined movement, she took her hand away only to stroke John's hair in a motherly gesture before turning around and stepping up to Sherlock's bed.

Some tears were making their way down her cheeks, but to Mycroft's surprise she was otherwise fully composed. She obviously hesitated slightly, then did as she had done with John, only now the older Holmes could see her face better than before and he realized that she was mumbling silently to herself. What was she doing? He was just about to ask her, when she looked up, facing him.

"It doesn't look too good, does it, Mr Holmes?"

Mycroft looked eyes with her, very slowly shaking his head. This shake of the head felt like an admission to himself, something that he had been aware of, that he had known but hadn't truly realized. It didn't look too good.

"Do you want me... to stay with them and talk to them? You know, I can do that," she offered a little shyly.

"I do assume you can; and yes, I would very much appreciate if you could stay – and talk. The doctor says..."

"... it helps." Molly finished the sentence. How was it possible that this mousy woman didn't seem to be intimidated a tad neither by the hospital nor by his presence. She rather showed a surprising strength, something that all of the three men, including himself, needed after this terrible shot in the dark.

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** An SH: War das letzte Guest-review von Dir? Ich hoffe, ich habe Dich nicht verärgert mit meiner Aufforderung, die reviews auf Englisch zu schreiben - war ein Scherz. Ich hoffe, du hast es auch so verstanden. Es ist nur so, dass die wirklich lesenswert sind - und es wäre so schade, wenn nur eine Handvoll das könnte, wie du schon angemerkt hast. Also, für den Fall, dass das bei Dir anders angekommen sein sollte: Ich freue mich über jeden Kommentar, egal in welcher Sprache.**


	17. Lestrade, Molly & Mycroft

**Looks like one chapter per week is the maximum of what I can manage to write. This one, however, is at least a bit longer than the last ones.  
**

**Thank you for your reviews Rephis, storylover18, Azzy97, Prothoe (hope you're well again?!) and Guest SH (have you ever thought of registering on here? Thank you and... I'm glad ;-)) . Thank you for your review on the prologe, Obsessive Freak. I hope you're still with me.  
**

**Thank you for following and favouriting, KatiePotterWeasley, rosalama, Gabbeeh, Sciencegirl123, Nanees, sweetprincess. mano, Meduimaane, WhatIsn'tTakenYet, mrswinchester1, JSC-HR, wynnleaf, Zacha, Thalianaa, A Soul of Shadows, Calatia, ConsultingAngelWarlock, Ivory. Tanguay , Jenasus, Kuronoko Tsubame, Lindariddle, Midnightlily15, Ms Gilraen, Niice Potter, PlumShadowShaper, Pulcherrima, PuppyProngs, Subliminal Giraffes, TaintedMuse 1804, becky. wright .71868, crexy, idlewild1, sweetoreo33, yaoilover127, AutumnRoseSummerLily, BalticSeaStar, CarmH, Cumberbatch. of. Derren. Brownies, FisherofMen, Fiver26, Gwen's Blue Box, IlCapo, KP777, Lar74, LMP collective, LiveDragons, Megabat, Mine77, Novella91, RyuNeko, Sukineko2012, Totallynewmerlinfan2013, ellybee2468, eohippus, Ibelieveinthe Sherlock Holmes, lanea, sneakysnakes, sohna, tvd-spn, waterbaby84, Ballykissangel, Fflur Cadwgawn, MagnaKitty, smartfart, Tamiriel, TheSundayBlues, xxImagination, briongloid fiodoir, bruderlein, Cjkteach, drpaz, maidsun, MASHFanficChick, Mimmi85, MrsMattSmith23, r3ading, TheAkinimod, UsagiRyu, Yassen obsessive!**

**I'm so grateful for having such a great beta! Thank you!**

**Enjoy a lot of Molly and Mycroft! Next chapter, Rephis, will be yours :-) **

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Chapter 16

Molly Hooper seemed to be quite in her element, checking the medical equipment and data displayed by it and ignoring Mycroft entirely. To his surprise he was somehow fascinated by it. He wasn't used to being apparently invisible as usually he was the one in charge and having control, quite often being the one doing something, instructing or interrogating others. A snide remark was on his tongue, but he swallowed it down. It had more come from a habit rather than from being uncomfortable with the situation.

Although they had never spoken about it, Mycroft knew that Sherlock thought highly of Ms Hooper, and he had wondered why that was the case. He had assumed, though, that it had been due to the fact that she was very easily manipulated and, therefore, was the willing supplier of Sherlock's body parts and whatever else he needed for his unfathomable experiments. Thus, he had always assumed that this woman had only been the means to an end, but had to realise now that he had been wrong. Although his brother wouldn't speak of it, Mycroft was convinced that Molly Hooper was tolerated by Sherlock because of her professionalism.

Mycroft had been lost in thought when he noticed Detective Inspector Lestrade standing by his side, taking in the picture in front of him and muttering unintelligible curses.

The older Holmes turned towards Lestrade, nodding his greeting to the DI.

"Thank you for coming, Detective Inspector."

"What the bloody hell...- who did that?!" he hissed.

"That is something yet to be found out. We need to talk. - Will you follow me outside, please?" Mycroft ordered without giving the DI the opportunity to look at his friends more closely.

Molly turned towards the two men, looking sadly at Lestrade.

"Greg..., hi. Come over here."

The DI glanced at Mycroft briefly, then went up to Molly. To Mycroft's apprehension and even contempt, she threw herself in the other man's arms, letting him hug her and mumble a soothing mantra to her. For God's sake, where was her professionalism gone now? After a time that felt endless to Mycroft, the two parted and DI Lestrade walked up to Mycroft.

"Let's get this over with," he remarked unhappily.

Mycroft gave him a cold look. "I do hope for your sake that there wasn't any possible that you could have avoided this disaster. Otherwise, dear Detective Inspector Lestrade, you may be saying farewell to your career."

Lestrade briefly hesitated before following the British Government while the threat was sinking in.

* * *

Molly watched the two men leave the ICU. Whoever's fault this was didn't matter to her; what was important, though, was that John and Sherlock survived.

The pathologist placed the stool between the two beds and dropped on it, burying her face in her hands. She felt terrible. She was cruelly reminded of the last days of her father's life in which she had attended to him, talking to him all the time although she knew that he wouldn't hear her – and never would again. She had been prepared for that moment when the heart monitor switched from displaying waves to drawing a flat line – at least she had thought so. And yet, it had hit her so terribly; the fact that at that very moment he was gone forever had struck her like lightning, throttling her throat so that it took her breath before she had burst into tears and had only stopped crying a month after his funeral when she had had her first strange and humiliating encounter with a certain Sherlock Holmes and had instantly fallen for him, God knew why!

And now she was sitting here at this very detective and his flatmate's bed, fighting against the urge to bawl. She would not. She would remain strong and help John and Sherlock. They were seriously injured, but it wasn't hopeless – not at all, just serious, she told herself. She took in some deep breaths, fighting back the tears that had been welling in her eyes. With a final little sob she pushed away all the sentimentality and started chatting, slowly and raggedly first, then more confidently. What did it matter what she was telling them? So she told them about the interesting bodies she could recall having on her autopsy table. It was good, though, that nobody else could hear her. Talking about dead bodies in an intensive care unit with two people being close to death would probably generally not be regarded an appropriate topic for cheering somebody up.

From time to time Molly stood up, checking the monitors. She couldn't help but stroke John and Sherlock occasionally. She felt it was her motherly side that forced her to. It was somehow natural with John, as he was her friend – and just that. However, with Sherlock, she hesitated. It was weird, since from the moment they had met first, Molly had always dreamt of touching Sherlock tenderly, of caressing him, but now she realized that probably it hadn't been so much only the physical contact she had been longing for, but his recognition. She did have a crush on him, but now that she was touching Sherlock, it felt odd.

Molly had taken one of Sherlock's hands into hers, stroking it with her thumb and looking at it; a hand with long, slender fingers, nails perfectly manicured, elegant and strong; and yet right now so weak - so feeble. Upon turning his hand around to look at the palm she flinched. There was a slim but tell-tale red line on his wrist. The pathologist gasped at the sight of those marks she knew too well – usually they weren't healed when she got to see them. However, this cut wasn't entirely healed, she noticed, still quite fresh indeed with little reminders of the scab still on it.

"What have you done, Sherlock?" she choked, tears springing to her eyes once again. Was this tough and outwardly cold-hearted man not so much the icy character he made everyone believe he was?

Her heart pounded and she quickly looked at his other wrist, but didn't find any traces of a slash there. Thank God! Molly wiped her eyes dry, condemning herself for being so tearful. Realizing that she had completely missed that her supposed friend had apparently had an emotional meltdown, made her gravely sad. On the other hand, she hadn't seen Sherlock in quite a while, so how could she _not _have missed it?

"Poor you," she whispered and lay his hand back at his side.

Molly was a hundred per cent convinced that the slash wasn't the outcome of an accident, so she guessed that the reason why the other hand didn't show any signs of a suicide attempt was that John had been there in time to prevent it. It was always John. Sometimes she envied Sherlock for having such a loyal friend and she had to admit that she sometimes even wondered how he had got himself a mate like him. It wasn't about the meeting - she had been there herself when they had met for the first time - it was about how they had become so inseparable. She wondered if she could she ask Mycroft about the slashed wrist, however, she wasn't sure if he knew anything about it as she knew that they weren't really close.

After more than an hour Greg returned to the ICU without Mycroft, looking weary.

Molly stood up, wringing her hands uncomfortably.

"Didn't go too well, did it? Uhm..., I mean, you look tired." She tilted her head, trying a wobbly smile.

Lestrade passed his hand through his hair and briefly pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I'll keep my job, so, I'd say it went really well," he replied with despairing irony. He told her that he had assumed that Mycroft's calm but disdainful behaviour was concealing the straightforward and tough nature that was required of the secret leader of an entire nation. However, he hadn't realised that being questioned by the man would be such an awkward experience. Mycroft had always remained calm, but the longer Greg had had to stand the questions, the more he had felt uneasy. He hadn't done anything wrong, though! Mycroft seemed to have come to the same conclusion eventually when he had been dismissed with the advance warning that in case of any further questions he would have to be prepared for a visit to his office by Mycroft's men.

Pointing in the direction of John and Sherlock, he said, "I'm fairly sure Mycroft has already sent out entire armies to find something out about the man who had tried to kill them. I wonder...," he let the sentence trail off.

"What?" Molly probed.

"I just wonder if... this has anything to do with the case I gave Sherlock and John only yesterday. – Nah, can't be. Doesn't make sense. I reckon we'll just have to wait until they're awake to find out what they were up to last night. Don't think they were just on a stroll through the beautiful London night."

"No,... no, I don't think so, either. What case, Greg?" Molly said with a small voice.

"Let's not talk about it, ok?" Greg replied seriously. "I... can't stay, I'm afraid. What can I do for them?"

"Help Mycroft find the perpetrator." Molly replied with a note of hatred in her voice that made Lestrade furrow his brow. He looked at the pathologist intently, then nodded and turned around to leave.

"And come back whenever you can," she said behind him. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder, nodding once again and sighing, before the door to the ICU anteroom closed behind him.

Molly went back to her stool. She needed a proper chair if she wanted to stay for longer and would ask the staff for one later. She checked the data displayed by the apparatus and pursed her lips about the figures of the cerebral pressure measured by the permanent EEG in Sherlock's head. She hadn't read their files up to now out of respect for their privacy, but she found herself reading Sherlock's now, just to familiarise herself with his current management, so she could alert a doctor should his condition become unstable.

The pressure was slightly increased - the almost inevitable brain swelling had begun and they could only hope that the catheter would be sufficient to drain enough liquid to prevent a dangerous pressure level. That would lead to another operation in which the skullcap would have to be removed and frozen, so that the brain would have enough space for swelling without destroying itself. Molly didn't want to even think about it. It was terrible enough to see those cables sticking out from the Consulting Detective's head; just thinking of all his hair and the top of his skull removed caused her waves of nausea. She had seen a number of patients – dead or alive – who had undergone the same treatment to save their lives and they had all had something of Frankenstein's monster afterwards, the stitches of the retransplantaion of the skullcap always visible around their foreheads. Plus, many of them had been left seriously handicapped - and she definitely couldn't imagine a handicapped Sherlock!

After some hours of being on guard, talking to the patients and to some of the medical staff, Molly was sitting by John's bedside in the much more comfortable chair a nurse had brought her, watching the ex-army doctor and Sherlock alternately. The intracranial pressure of the latter had further increased, but so far, the catheter, now filled with a yellowish-reddish transparent liquid, prevented it from becoming life-threatening.

Molly was exhausted, however rejected all offers to be taken home for a rest. She finally folded her arms on the edge of John's mattress, resting her head on them and instantly falling asleep, dreaming weird and terrifying pictures of creatures with metal sticks sticking out of their heads, surrounded by nasty scars, babbling and slobbering.

She woke with a start, sensing that she was being watched. Molly had no idea as to how long she had been sleeping, but she found it rather a relief to be awake after a row of nightmares. Her neck was all tensed up and after stretching it and moving her head from one side to the other, she looked up into Mycroft's tired face.

"I didn't want to wake you, I'm sorry," he said with a voice that clearly resembled his physical state of utter exhaustion.

"No, no. It's fine. I... didn't sleep well anyway. Not really the place to sleep, is it? Uhm, at least not for us... me. I mean, they sleep, but they have to..." the equally tired pathologist stammered. She hadn't met Sherlock's brother that often, but every time she had, he had been such a git. However, now he rather exuded a certain, yet mainly concealed helplessness. Molly felt sorry for him. It had to be hard to carry the weight of responsibility for a nation when your sibling was lying in a hospital bed fighting death.

"I suppose not," Mycroft replied.

Molly got up from the chair, bowing her spine backwards to ease the pain in it, before checking John's vital signs and stroking his arm up and down reassuringly. She then went over to where Mycroft was standing, checking on Sherlock.

"Hasn't got any worse, fortunately," she mumbled.

She took Sherlock's hand in hers, checking the IV in the first place. However, upon laying it back at his side, she turned it around carefully, presenting the fine red line between the tendons to Mycroft. She turned her head to look the older Holmes in the eyes, asking silent questions.

The tall man took a deep breath, shaking his head.

Molly didn't want to give up now.

"What's wrong with him?" she probed whisperingly.

Sherlock's brother sighed. "Paradoxically, his brain is sometimes almost killing him."

"Like now." Molly remarked, instantly sensing that that had been incredibly tactless, but before she could apologize, Mycroft just nodded.

"Like now."

"What happened?" the pathologist wanted to know.

Very slowly, Mycroft laid his head in his neck, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes, his brow furrowed as if he was in pain.

"Ms Hooper, that is private matter."

"Private matter, you say? May I ask you how private it was to bring me here to be there for John and Sherlock? I'm their friend, and I guess that's very private!"

Mycroft instantly became stiff.

"You may be the closest thing to friends Sherlock has, but if you were that close, he would have told you himself, wouldn't he?" the suddenly very formal Holmes spat.

Molly was taken aback. What had happened to make the atmosphere in that room suddenly drop below zero? Mycroft's remark stung – the truth in it stung.

"You're right. I had better go home to get some sleep," she replied, downcast and close to tears.

"Wait!" As she turned around to leave, Mycroft grabbed her arm to prevent her from exiting the ICU.

She locked eyes with him.

"You know, Mr Holmes, people tend to think – Sherlock... thinks, I don't observe; I don't count; I'm just mousy Molly, who doesn't care being taken advantage of! It's not true! I'm not... all that. If you think everything is just a private matter, I really wonder what I'm doing here?"

"My apologies, Ms Hooper, I didn't mean to offend you - honestly." Mycroft stated rather shamefacedly, still clutching to her arm. "Stay, please."

"You need me because you have nobody else, do you?" Molly stated bitterly.

"I need you because you are somebody Sherlock trusts – he would entrust his life to you, I'm sure of that, Molly," he replied softly, loosening his grip.

She looked at him for a long time in search of the truth behind those words, but she couldn't find anything apart from an unspoken plea. Molly slightly tilted her head, setting her gaze on the hand on her arm.

"I... don't want to let him exploit me, you know? It's just that... he... uhm... he... puts some kind of spell on me."

Mycroft raised one eyebrow, remarking in a slightly mocking manner, "Oh, that's what you call it..."

"Call what? What do you mean?"

"Nothing. – Stay, please, and let me tell you something about Sherlock." The older Holmes evaded a proper answer by giving in to her request. Molly was slightly surprised about it since she had thought that a man like Mycroft would never surrender, not even for such minor matters that didn't affect the whole nation.

"I'm not doing it for you. I'm staying for John and Sherlock's sake. Got that?" she replied defiantly.

Mycroft raised his hands in a placating manner.

"I know. And I am very grateful. I will return shortly, Ms Hooper."

They looked at each other for a moment before Mycroft left the room, leaving a totally confused and dog-tired Molly behind.

The pathologist let out a puff of air and resumed her old position on the chair, waiting for Mycroft to return and keep his promise. What a strange man he was! Molly could imagine that he didn't have many friends, but she wasn't sure if he wanted any after all. Like Sherlock, he showed an apparent lack of empathy and she wondered whether it was genetic or drilled into them by the way they had been brought up.

While she was mulling over Mycroft's character, she saw him enter the ICU with two cups in his hand. One had to be Mycroft Holmes to be allowed to bring coffee into the ICU as a visitor! Molly was grateful, though, when he passed her the steaming mug.

* * *

Mycroft was wondering why on earth he had succumbed to telling Ms Hooper about Sherlock. He had to admit to himself that he was fascinated by the contradiction of her insecure appearance and her secure professionalism. Although he thought that she was quite a chatty person regarding matters of little importance, he felt instinctively that he could entrust her with his brother's personal secrets without her batting an eyelid.

Mycroft sat down on the stool in his usual elegant manner despite the time of the night, leaving the chair for Molly. After having taken a few sips of coffee, Molly looked at Sherlock's brother questioningly.

"So?" she probed.

Much to his own surprise, Mycroft told Molly Hooper a good deal about Sherlock's past, the Tabun poisoning and the fact that he had told her a white lie about the Noro infection and also about his brother's abduction as a child, even a little bit about his own role later. However, his descriptions were deliberately vague, leaving out the more sensitive details. When it came to Sherlock's slashed wrists, he told her about his struggle with the memories of his captivity, but couldn't tell her anything about the true reasons for his meltdown. Mycroft felt a little uneasy about the fact that he as Sherlock's brother knew in fact so little about him from talking to him personally rather than from spying on him.

He also felt some unease, at various points in his narration, about whether he was doing the right thing by Sherlock. Although he felt he could trust Molly to be discrete and he knew that his brother had a good opinion of her, would Sherlock really want this young woman to know what he had gone through? And yet, whenever he hesitated, he glanced at his unnaturally still younger brother and had a conviction that it was for a best. Sherlock might need more than one friend to support him in his recovery. After all, horrible though it was to contemplate, John was by no means out of the woods himself and it was still quite possible that the doctor would eventually succumb to his injuries while Sherlock recovered. Mycroft could hardly bear to imagine the impact such a loss would have on his brother, but the logical part of his brain was already considering the alternative possibilities – hence his decision to enlighten Ms Hooper.

The talking became easier after some time and the older Holmes even felt a certain relief about sharing his knowledge, which was certainly unexpected. He was used to keeping secrets to such a degree that every piece of information he was entrusted with was always assessed as to their national value before being stored in his mind.

Molly sat there, listening and looking utterly baffled by what she was hearing. She didn't interrupt Mycroft's tale at any time, which he appreciated a lot, but he was wondering what was going on in her mind, having expected her to be a rather difficult listener, interrupting and asking questions all the time. He had misjudged her completely.

Mycroft felt a little friendly intimacy building up between them, something he hadn't known... since his younger boyhood when he used to have playmates he would even have called friends. It had to be a pre-school memory he was recalling right now, because he could only remember having classmates and colleagues later, none of whom qualified as a friend as such – they had rather been useful contacts. And that was what he had nowadays: useful contacts, many of them. However, Molly Hooper didn't fit into that category.

In the early morning, the exhausted pathologist simply fell asleep in the chair after some time of comfortable silence between her and Mycroft. He ordered that she was taken home to get some rest. Daylight was already breaking, so Mrs Hudson would soon be there to take over.

Before leaving, Mycroft stood between the beds of John and Sherlock, tired and empty of thought. He just looked at the two unconscious men, blinking away silent tears of something so lost that he didn't even know what it was.

* * *

Some days passed by, Molly and Mrs Hudson taking turns in guarding and "entertaining" the two comatose patients. Mrs Hudson forced herself to stay composed and less touchy, although Mycroft really could blow her top every time they met. Lestrade came by whenever he could, which was quite regularly, however, not for long each time.

Sherlock's condition didn't change much, either for the worse or the better. After two days during which his doctors worried about possible brain haemorrhage, the swelling showed the first signs of decrease. They were all relieved that no further operation would be necessary.

The night Molly had questioned Mycroft about the traces of a suicide attempt at Sherlock's wrist had amended her image of the Consulting Detective. She could now see a good deal of humanity in the man that hadn't been the image that had sprung to mind on the first occasion that she had had to deal with the younger Holmes.

All the times later that she had spent sitting at his bedside, she couldn't refrain from seeing Sherlock with different eyes, seeing the frailty in him that had been hidden so well so far. However, one thing that suffered from this new view was her crush on the Consulting Detective as it slowly turned into something firmer and more comfortable, a feeling of friendship, just friendship.

After a week in induced coma, the doctors decided that John Watson could be woken up. He would be in enormous pain due to the fractured leg, but the spleen and the liver didn't show any signs of an inflammation. He had a slight fever, but it was below any alarming state. Molly insisted on being there when he woke up and convinced Mycroft that it would probably be better if it was just her among the doctors the clinic, so after some arguing Mycroft gave in eventually, only leaving with the promise granted that he would be called as soon as John was sufficiently awake and stable. Molly reminded him of the fact that, although he would be awake, he would not be in a condition to answer any questions instantly, which would take a couple of hours' or even days' time.

So, one morning a team of doctors and nurses entered the ICU, Molly already awaiting them excitedly. After a close examination of John, the ventilation was switched off, the endotracheal tube removed and the IV with the drug inducing the coma disconnected. Instead of the tube John was given a nasal cannula to provide him with extra oxygen.

After some time the heart monitor showed an increase in heartbeats, which was the sign for an imminent wakening of the patient. Molly's heartbeat increased in the same way in eager anticipation. Everyone was carefully watching John's vitals, prepared to immediately intervene in case anything unforeseen happened. Molly couldn't help but sit down on the stool close to the bed and take her friend's hand. It was meant to be a comforting gesture for the patient, the soothing effect on the one holding the hand, however, wasn't to be underestimated.

Molly felt the ex-army man's fingers slightly twitching in her hand; then, with his eyes still closed, he moaned weakly, the heartbeat speeding up even more.

"He's in pain. Adjust the morphine dose to ten milligrams," one of the doctors instructed the nurse.

Molly kept stroking John's hand; she could feel his muscles tensing up in the still semi-conscious fight against the hurting in his body.

"It'll all be fine. You'll wake and the pain will be gone. Don't worry, John, it'll all be fine," the pathologist whispered reassuringly, though knowing that it wasn't all true.

All of a sudden, the pulse increased dramatically and John's breath came extremely fast and shallow, the heart monitor setting off a cascade of alarms – he was apparently hyperventilating, his hands becoming cramped.

"He's going into respiratory alkalosis! Arterial pH at seven point five! - Mask and rebreathing bag! Diazepam, ten millilitres! If the pH doesn't drop we'll have to intubate again!" The doctor shouted urgently.

Molly had got up from her seat, knowing that she would be in the way if anything more serious happened. She watched the doctors working hand in hand, trying to get John's breathing under control. She herself knew a good deal about medicine, could read and interpret most of the data displayed by all the apparatus in the ICU, however, in case of a real emergency, she was rather helpless. Work in the morgue was a quiet thing without the inevitably hectic nature of emergencies where every decision could be one about life or death. It felt terrible to know that the cause of _this_ emergency was a friend, was John - and she could do nothing to help him.

Molly felt numb and cold inside. It took a while before she realised that the immediate danger was over, John's breath having evened out and the pH of the blood having gone back to slightly above normal.

"Was he panicking?" she asked with a thin voice.

The doctor turned towards her as if he had noticed her for the first time now.

"It looks like it. Sometimes traumatised people hyperventilate after cardiac arrests and upon awakening."

Molly's jaw dropped. "Cardiac arrest? – I ... didn't know that."

"He cheated death three times. He has a strong will to survive."

The shocked pathologist threw a quick glance at the still Sherlock. "Yes, I assume he has."


	18. John

**This is an overdue, though short update. Sorry. **

**_Rephis_****, this is for you - your wish was my command :-) **

**Thank you everyone who read, reviewed, followed and favourited! You all mean the world to me! **

**Thank you,_ librarianmum_, my dear, for investing time that you don't have in revising my writing! I'm so grateful! **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Nothingness. Blank. An occasional breath of something, however. What? When? Or where? There was neither time nor place; it was floating in nothingness, drifting through colours, flying with clouds through the silence.

The occasional something was so vague and tender and warm, reaching into the incorporeality and preventing him from crossing the line and dissolving his mind from his body entirely.

And all of a sudden, there was suction, strong and painful. He himself materialized. The peaceful emptiness was gone and suddenly his mind was filled with images flashing like a high-speed slideshow, images of rain and blood. A bullet hole and a scream. His own scream. The bullet hole in Sherlock's head. His friend - dead.

He couldn't breathe. He tried to suck in air, but it still felt as if there was no oxygen in the gas that filled his lungs. He had to breathe faster. It didn't help. He felt as if ants were crawling over his body, coming from the fingers up his arms, the prickling becoming unbearable. He couldn't move to get rid of them and he still couldn't get enough air in. He was suffocating. Very distantly he heard the ants whisper. He had never before heard them and it was terrifying.

Very slowly the feeling of the iron weight in his chest decreased and made breathing easier. The ants had apparently let go of him and made their ways back to where they had come from, leaving a light tingling on his skin. The pictures in his mind lost their cruelty and disappeared into his subconscious, leaving him exhausted and afraid of their return.

He now realised that the ants' whispering had in fact been people talking. It seemed as if his brain was turning up the volume to outside sounds. His mind, however, was so veiled that he couldn't understand them. He wasn't sure if he wanted to understand them.

Now that his brain took up its work, the nerves transmitting data from the body towards it, he felt pain. Everywhere. He had a notion that it was connected with the pictures in his mind, but they were locked away currently, so he couldn't put the pieces together. He tried to assess the discomfort**.** It was inside him, burning like fire. Rather a smouldering than an open fire. Pain medication. He had no idea where the thought came from, but he knew he was right. The pain killers made it impossible to determine where the source of the discomfort was.

He heard a groan that was closer than the indistinct whispers and suddenly felt the same tender warmth he could remember distantly from the emptiness. It was on his forehead, his cheek, his hand. A touch. Whose touch?

"Shush," he heard a whisper, a female voice, familiar, but he had difficulties identifying it.

He tried to say something, opened his mouth, but exhaling so much air that it would make his vocal cords vibrate was an unattainable task. His throat hurt, it was sore.

Slowly, the world around him materialized and the perception of his body and the sounds surrounding him became a little clearer, although he couldn't muster the energy to open his eyes. He felt his fingers that were still prickling a tiny bit. He must have hyperventilated.

Suddenly, one image made its way back from his subconscious to appear in front of his eyes – that of Sherlock lying dead.

There was the groan again, and he realized that the sound was coming from himself. He couldn't help it. He felt panic crawling into his body. It wasn't a dream; the image was the last thing he remembered before he had passed out. There was more that he should remember, but he couldn't. Sherlock... dead! The thought filled his brain, leaving no space for other thinking processes. It was about to take his breath again.

There were the gentle touch and the soothing voice again. Molly's voice. Why was Molly there? Was he in the morgue?! Unconscious in the morgue – that was a bit not good. Was she doing an autopsy on him? No, she was talking to him. She wouldn't normally talk to the bodies she was about to cut up. He was cold and he needed to open his eyes and he was subconsciously aware of his thoughts being weird and confused. He was wakening.

"Shush, John, calm down, he's alive. Sherlock is alive."

Sherlock. Is. Alive. Why did she say that? Why did she lie to him? He didn't remember much, however, the picture of his best friend lying dead in the cold rain wasn't a dream. He finally forced his eyes open, blinking a couple of times to chase away the blur, trying to focus on something. There were a couple of unknown faces above him, staring at him. Slowly, a familiar face came into his vision – the face that belonged to the voice that had talked to him. Molly.

"Hi John," she greeted him, "I'm glad you're awake."

He just stared at her.

A bright light suddenly flashed into his eyes and disappeared instantly.

"Normal reaction of the pupils," said one of the faces. A doctor. He averted his gaze from Molly, looking around as much as possible without moving. He was in a hospital. Again a hospital! He felt the light breath of oxygen in his nostrils and the equipment he was able to see clearly belonged to an intensive care unit. What exactly had happened? He looked back at Molly, his eyes wide open now.

"How are you? ...not that I expect you to say you're fine, I know you can't be, but... are you in pain?"

"Sh... Sher...," he was too weak to finish the word and he closed his eyes in exasperation. He needed to know what she had meant by "Sherlock is alive" for it couldn't possibly be true. He had seen the hole in his head!

"Sherlock? He's here, over there." Molly tilted her head into a direction away from his own bed.

With all the strength he could muster, John turned his head just a little bit and gasped in shock. That _was_ Sherlock - alive. Kept alive, he corrected himself, but not dead as he had believed. A pang of coldness shot through his body. Sherlock was kept alive, but what if it that was it, if he was brain-dead and they were only ventilating him to keep his organs intact?

John felt bile coming up his gullet and while trying to supress the nausea, it burnt like fire in his sore throat. He choked and coughed, which sent beats of pain through his abdomen.

A doctor urged him to look him in the eyes and instructed him how to breathe away the nausea while Molly was stroking his hand.

"You'll be fine, John."

After his breath had evened out and the nausea had mostly vanished, John looked again over to his flatmate's bed. He heard Molly speak about Sherlock, how lucky he had been and that he was out of the most imminent danger; her words, though, didn't quite reach him instantly. It took him a few moments to realise what she had said. His vocal cords still failing on him, he just closed his eyes and tried to crack a smile of relief at Molly, who slightly squeezed his hand in understanding.

John wanted to ask a hundred questions, but his brain insisted on shutting down for a rest. Two words, however, were humming in his subconscious when he was drifting into sleep and he didn't have the faintest idea why they were there. They just didn't make sense, but he was unable to clear his mind from the repetition of the words "Don't go."

* * *

**If you want to make me happy, leave a little comment ;-)  
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	19. John's awakening part II

**_Rephis_, here you go, part 2 of John's awakening - as promised. :-)**

**Unfortunately, it takes quite a while until a person is fully woken from an induced coma, and I'm fully aware that I stretch the medical correctness a bit, but it's for the sake of the story. There will be another chapter up soon, maybe tomorrow.**

**There are times when I think I should abandon or finish this story very quickly; the only thing that keeps me going is your support and encouragement. Thank you so much for it, all of you!**

**_Librarianmum_, I owe you so much, you have no idea!**

**SH, bist du noch da?**

* * *

John didn't know how much time had passed since he had woken up first. He realised that he was drifting in and out of sleep, sometimes seeing Molly at his bedside and sometimes Mrs Hudson. In the very back of his mind he had so many questions, so many things that needed clarification, but he had felt too exhausted to even think about formulating a sensible sentence or process those that were spoken to him properly.

He had had strange dreams that still felt so real, dreams of him being in an entirely different world, a world full of green with waterfalls everywhere, watching human-like creatures with pointy ears discuss their intervention in a kind of war. It felt as if he had been right in the middle of it, however, he had seen everything from a curious angle, like a child or a dwarf. Together with some of the beings he had had to flee and suddenly there had been an aeroplane which he had climbed into, only to find Sherlock in the pilot's seat, preparing a take-off. On John's objection that he couldn't fly that plane, he had insisted on being the commander of that vessel and that he knew very well how to fly it. John had found himself pulling the yoke forcefully to lift the plane up above mountains that had suddenly come to life, throwing stones at them. The dreams had been so incredibly weird, and yet the images had been so real. He could still feel the echo of the feeling of the gravity pulling at his guts during the bumpy take-off.

Slowly, his senses took up their function and the confusing images as well as the feeling of cotton wool in his brain subsided gradually. He had distantly perceived that a doctor had talked to him, informing him about the reduction of the dosage of the sedative he was being administered due to hyperventilating in his awakening process. John couldn't remember anything.

He did remember the dreadful feeling of loss of his best friend, and the shock he had got at the first sight of Sherlock with the permanent EEG and his first thought of him being brain-dead. Either impression had been about to tear him apart; however, Molly had soothed him and reassured him that Sherlock wasn't dead. This weight had been taken off of his heart, and yet, now that his brain worked better and he regained access to his own medical knowledge, he felt new worry settle in his mind. The intracranial EEG wasn't a good sign, as wasn't the fact that Sherlock was still kept in an induced coma. As much as John tried to remember what exactly had happened, he wasn't able to. It was as if his mind had shut a door that he wasn't able to open. A door in his mind... – it rang a distant bell in him.

Suddenly everything shifted into place: it wasn't a door in _his_ mind, it was Sherlock's mind palace: the abduction, the swastika and Sherlock's monogram on the dead body, their nightly walk through London in an attempt to find something out about the body or the killer, the car that had suddenly appeared out of nothing without the lights on, clearly aiming at them, the sight of Sherlock on the ground with blood running from his head. However, there were gaps. He remembered fidgeting for his gun, but he couldn't remember what had happened then and to him, why he himself was in such pain, albeit it was dull, suppressed by the medication he was administered through the drip.

All the pieces he had, however, made sense when put together. The ciphers on the body had in fact been a threat towards Sherlock and someone had apparently tried to kill him, but hadn't succeeded – fortunately. So far. The thought was nagging in his subconscious. He didn't know anything about his friend's condition, he was just assuming things from what he had been able to see from his bed as he hadn't been awake enough to talk to anyone.

When John finally managed to open his eyes, he didn't look into either of the women's faces he had expected. Instead, upon turning his head just a little bit, green eyes and a smile that he always found slightly artificial met his gaze – Mycroft.

"Good evening, John."

Mycroft was sitting at his bedside, dressed in the usual ICU clothing. Despite the seriousness of the situation, John felt a giggle in his throat. The protective cap looked particularly ludicrous on the personified British Government, who would have serious problems keeping his authority towards his men when being dressed like that.

"Evening?" John wondered, his voice all croaky due to his still quite sore throat.

"Yes. You were woken from the induced coma four days ago in the morning; however, your responsiveness had been a bit ... weak since then. How are you feeling?"

It was a strange thing to be asked about your condition by Mycroft, and John scrutinised the other man trying to find the underlying purpose in the question. He had to admit to himself, though, that it seemed that Sherlock's brother was just asking for the sake of knowing how he really was. Mycroft neither had any deceptive traces in his gaze nor did he avert it. He just looked at him.

"I feel like... I have been... run over by a car," John replied, the image fitting his current condition quite well.

Curiously enough, Mycroft laughed..

"You never lose your sense of humour, do you?" he asked, still smiling.

John was slightly confused, although the possibility that the choice of image of how he felt came closer to reality than had crossed his mind so far, was beginning to dawn on him.

"I was... indeed...?"

"Yes, John, you were, in fact, run over by a car. Well, to be precise, you were catapulted over a car after it had hit you."

"Can't remember."

"No. But what _can_ you remember?"

There they were. This was not a well-meant visit – not entirely at least – but an interrogation.

John closed his eyes for a moment.

"Look, John, I'm not here to blame you for anything, quite the contrary, but we need to know what happened to find the one pulling the strings behind all this."

Mycroft's voice sounded tired – and despairing. When John opened his eyes again he found the same traces in the older man's face and eyes. It seemed that Sherlock's brother was hiding his personal agitation and covering it with his professional duties. The feeling of resistance against Mycroft and his questions that had been building up in John suddenly dissolved. Each time anew he caught himself inwardly accusing Mycroft of being cold as a stone, but by now he really should know better.

"You once again proved me right, John," the older Holmes added quietly.

"Right? With what?"

"You will never be anything else but a soldier, Afghanistan is everywhere you are. _Your_ theatre of war is now at my brother's side and your instincts haven't suffered at all from your recent tendency towards laziness and an over-indulgence in takeaway food, leading to a general reduction in physical fitness."

John looked at Mycroft, puzzled. It was a special Holmes-characteristic to encipher a message in a mixture of facts and insults, so that a normal person was unable to understand the core of it.

"What are you talking about?"

"You saved him. You shot the man in the car. If you hadn't, he would have shot straight and Sherlock would be dead."

The doctor's eyes opened wide. A faint memory of him pointing a gun at the front window of the car made its way up from his subconscious.

"Thank you, John. I do appreciate your abilities."

John was too baffled to say anything and it simply felt strange to hear Mycroft thanking him for the third time in only a few months' time for saving Sherlock's life; and even for him being himself – a soldier.

"... just... self-interest," John mumbled, grinning weakly at Mycroft, although he absolutely meant it and he was sure that Sherlock's brother wouldn't see anything humorous in it either.

"Now, John, what I know so far is that you and Sherlock went to the Met to meet your friend Lestrade – I assume to get my brother some criminal riddle to occupy his mind with – and that in the evening you suddenly texted me that he was in danger." Mycroft slightly tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, looking at him patronizingly. "DI Lestrade reported to me about the dead homeless man with the branding. Is there any connection that I should know of, John?"

"Suppose so," John admitted. He really didn't feel like talking as the dull but constant throbbing in his abdomen and his leg were quite irritating; not so much painful, but distracting. With a shock he had realised that his leg was fixated with an Ilizarov-apparatus, which meant that it was fractured, most likely multiple times. He hadn't had the chance to talk to anybody about his injuries, but John sensed that the pain in the upper part of his body resulted from internal injuries, which were frequent when losing a frontal fight with a car. On the other hand he knew it was important to tell Mycroft what he knew. So he mustered all his remaining strength and talked.

"The branding... Sherlock said... it was a warning for him. When... when you put the lines together differently, you... get... a swastika, an S and an H." John closed his eyes, the fatigue pulling his eyelids down and making it almost impossible to open them again.

"Don't sleep, John, just a few more questions, then I will let you rest. It is obvious that Sherlock saw a connection to the Tabun poisoning in it, but is there any proof of the theory?"

John was already half asleep and only managed to get out an unvoiced "No". He was subconsciously wondering how Mycroft had made the leap to the Tabun so quickly – it had to be something in the Holmes genes that made it possible for both brothers to grasp things so very fast.

Very distantly he heard Sherlock's brother sigh before some shuffling sounds accompanied John into his sleep.


	20. Sherlock's awakening part I

Sherlock's awakening part I

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**You may have noticed that my chapters have names now - not really, but I got confused with the chapter numbers, so I deleted them. When I have time I'll revise the titles to proper ones.**

**I promised you another chapter soon, so here it is.**

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Mycroft had hoped to get some more information from John, although Sherlock's deduction of the branding was already of great help. It actually seemed that this was the connection between Lestrade's case and the assault on his brother and John Watson. At least it was a trace they could follow.

More than he would admit, even to himself, Mycroft was relieved that John had woken up and was as good as could be expected under such circumstances. Before he had paid him a visit, he had talked to the doctors. The fractured bones and the external wounds were healing quite well; the liver and spleen didn't show any signs of failure, so John had been very lucky indeed, particularly when taking the three cardiac arrests into consideration. The risk of hypoxemia, and, therefore, possible brain damage and a real coma had been terribly high, so it was rather a miracle that nothing of the like had occurred. They didn't venture a prognosis as to the likeliness of a limp in John's leg, though, but time and physical therapy would be the best treatments to prevent any impairment.

The drainage in Sherlock's brain had served its purpose, so that the dreaded operation in order to remove the skull cap to give the brain enough space for swelling hadn't been necessary. The swelling had decreased and most of his brother's reflexes were rather normal again. They had already reduced the dosage of the narcotic and with the next reduction the next day they expected him to wake up. They could only hope that neither the projectile itself nor the trauma had done any damage to Sherlock's admittedly exceptional brain. The neurologists had decided to leave the permanent EEG in place for a couple of days to see the reactions of the brain when his brother was awake. However, the forty per cent recovery-chance was still nagging at the back of Mycroft's mind. What if Sherlock didn't fully recover? He pushed the thought away – first things first. What-ifs wouldn't help him at all.

The very first thing he had to do was to instruct his people to pick up the scent of the assailant's connections to the expelled family who had tried to kill Sherlock before. He would never have thought that they would dare take any steps towards any member of the Holmes family after his very clear threat against them. In the highly likely case that Sherlock had been right – as much as he loathed Sherlock's "work", he couldn't suppress a tiny whiff of admiration for his brother's hit rate -, they would definitely and terminally regret their foolishness.

When Mycroft was ridding himself of the protective clothing, Molly entered the anteroom. He had seen her a couple of times, but hadn't spoken to her much. She looked pale and tired. He knew that she was spending far too much time guarding Sherlock and John, neglecting her own duties and needs. Mycroft had known that she was loyal, but hadn't even distantly imagined that she would commit herself to her task as much as she did. A thought suddenly crossed the older Holmes' mind: would anybody do the same for him? He forced it back, but as quick as it had been, it had already left trails of a feeling of sadness and emptiness - he couldn't think of anybody.

"Hi," Molly interrupted his thoughts, giving him a shy smile.

"Good evening, Ms Hooper," Mycroft replied politely, producing an equally honest smile.

"How are you?" she wanted to know, scrutinizing him.

"They're fine, according to the circumstances."

"No, I wasn't asking about _them_, Mr Holmes, I was asking about you," she butted in on him, looking at him bravely.

How could he have missed that?! He had simply been too absorbed in his thoughts about John and Sherlock – and the realisation that having someone who cared for you wasn't too bad after all. "I'm fine, thank you for asking," he added quickly.

She gave him a strange look; and with a hint of shaking her head, she stated, "You're all the same, you and Sherlock, you know?"

Mycroft had just been about to ask her about her own well-being, but the words got stuck in his mouth. He pierced her with a questioning gaze.

"What do you mean?" he wanted to know.

"Nothing. I'm sorry... nothing." Molly replied quietly, lowering her eyes.

"Molly."

The almost tender calling of her name surprised both the addressed person and the speaker. Mycroft hardly knew Molly and she knew him even less, thus he was really intrigued by what she had said, however, his vocal chords had just played a trick on him. There was something fragile about Molly on the one hand, but on the other hand her openness stunned him – he liked her. Was that what had happened to Sherlock? Did he "like" her? Neither he nor Sherlock frequently, if at all, used this word in connection with persons, things or activities. Sherlock wouldn't even say he liked playing the violin. He would rather call it "being helpful", "relaxing", "stimulating", but simply not that he _liked_ playing the expensive instrument.

Mycroft could see that Molly was squirming with uneasiness, so he decided, for the time being, to leave it with that.

"They are going to wake Sherlock tomorrow. I hope you understand that I would rather be there then, no offence. I will call you as soon as we know how he is."

"Um, yes, it's ok. Fine. I'll be at Mrs Hudson's, so... um... I can tell her. She needs some rest anyway."

"Yes, and so do you. Don't stay up all night, Molly. You won't be of any help if you collapse from exhaustion."

She laughed a little nervous laugh, but he could also see something else in her eyes. Gratitude?

"Take care – and thank you," Mycroft said and honestly meant it.

He turned around and left the anteroom. The past week had left its marks on him as well. He was sleep-deprived, and an occasional throbbing pain in his chest warned him to take some rest as soon as possible as well.

* * *

The next morning John felt much better. The actual restorative value of his sleep was noticeably increasing. Coming off the sedatives was good and he felt a lot more powerful than the day before. He even took a first attempt at raising his headboard so that he was almost sitting in his bed. This, however, caused him waves of pain in his guts, so he rang the bell and lowered himself into a flatter position. He still hadn't got any information as to his own condition, and reaching for his record at the end of the bed was simply impossible.

Only seconds after his ringing, a nurse entered the ICU and left again to fetch the doctor in charge after John had asked her about his injuries.

Upon entering the ICU, the doctor greeted John with a broad smile.

"Good morning, Dr Watson. I'm very pleased to see you this well. I heard you would like to know what damage the car did to you."

He sat down by John's side.

"Since we're talking at eye level, I won't try to gloss over the truth."

John felt his hands become cold. He could see the external fixation device on his leg and he knew that it wasn't used for simple fractures. Also, the constant pain in his abdomen and the fact that he had been put into a coma for a couple of days told him that there was something more, something more severe. With his eyebrows raised expectantly, he listened to the doctor, who matter-of-factly gave him a complete medical report on his injuries.

John's heart started pounding when last he told him about his cardiac arrests. He lowered his gaze, watching the IV cannula on the back of his hand with sudden interest. He now knew that mainly liquid substitutes, pain killers and antibiotics were flowing through the needle into his veins, but unexpectedly, he had a distant feeling of the many different drugs administered and the hectic hustle accompanying a patient's cardiac arrest. It was a strange thing to hear about yourself being so close to death and not having the faintest clear memory of it. However, there were again those two words reverberating in his mind which didn't make any sense to him: Don't go. Why did he always have those words in his head?

His thoughts were interrupted by the doctor getting up from the chair by his bedside.

"You know, Dr Watson, there must be something here on earth that clings to you so much that even the grim reaper isn't strong enough to pull you on his side. I'm glad you made it."

He smiled again genuinely, pointing into Sherlock's direction.

"And in an hour we're waking him up. I hope he'll do as well as you did."

"So do I." John spoke from his heart, although his mind was still overwhelmed by the doctor's narration of his own injuries.

The doctor left the ICU and John laid his head back into the cushion and closed his eyes. What was one supposed to think or feel when getting to know that they had escaped death three times and had a good chance of recovering almost fully?

"Thank you," John whispered without even knowing whom he addressed. He was just grateful, otherwise, however, entirely numb. He had expected more or less what the doctor had told him, and yet, he had to process the information.

The impending limp was the only thing that annoyed him. He had had a limp for too long and he would do any exercise that would prevent him from developing a limp that wouldn't be psychosomatic!

"Damn leg!" he yelled, hardly resisting the urge to beat the bloody limb, which wouldn't have been wise in many ways. Damn leg, he murmured again, exasperated and yet sensing that a limp wouldn't be the worst compared to brain damage. If only Sherlock was ok - nothing else mattered at the moment.

Some time later John was woken from the nap he hadn't noticed he had fallen into by a medical team entering the ICU, accompanied by Mycroft. Although the older Holmes possessed a natural authority, he looked slightly forlorn among the doctors. A thought struck John that the reason for this impression lay in the fact that Mycroft was scared. It had to be the same feeling of fear that he felt himself, caused by the uncertainty of the outcome of Sherlock's awakening. John knew that today they would only be able to see if there were any signs of an awakening at all.

He shifted in his bed trying to reach for the remote to raise his headrest to get a better sight of Sherlock. A nurse came to his assistance, adjusting the tubes and cables so that he couldn't remove any accidentally. This second attempt at a sitting position went far better than the first one and John assumed that they had to have administered him a higher dose of the pain medication. He was fairly sure that they had talked to him about it, but it wasn't uncommon for recently woken patients to talk and answer questions without remembering later.

There were four doctors, most likely a neurosurgeon, a neurologist, an anaesthetist and the intensive care specialist that John had talked to earlier. He had seen two more of them before at his own bed, so he assumed that the fourth had to be the neurosurgeon he himself hadn't needed.

His gaze met Mycroft's, whose face was now blank of any expression. John had learned from too many other occasions that that meant nothing. He was convinced that the older Holmes was as excited as he was, which was clearly visible from his heart monitor that showed an elevated pulse and an increase in blood pressure. The intensive care specialist stepped up to John, checking on the other data displayed by the monitors.

"A bit nervous, Dr Watson?" he asked casually, winking.

"Quite difficult to hide, huh?" John croaked, his voice still hoarse from the tube.

"Then let's see if we can wake Mr Holmes." He looked at him and Mycroft alternately, the latter being unusually quiet.

One of the other doctors reported on Sherlock's current condition.

"Reduction of the dosage of the narcotic during the last four days has gone well so far. Reflexes are inconspicuous, gag and breathing reflexes are still inhibited. We've decided to suppress the rebound-processes by administering hydrocortisone."

For the first time Mycroft spoke and his agitation was clearly audible in his voice.

"Speak English!"

"Apologies, Mr Holmes. It is common that patients waking from a coma develop post-traumatic stress disorder due to the emotions they experience during the awakening. This is caused by the influence of adrenaline on the part of the brain responsible for emotions, the amygdala. During the wakening process, the patient's body is literally washed over with adrenaline, so we suppress its uptake."

"Post-traumatic stress disorder!" Mycroft spat, and he set his gaze on John, a suddenly strange smile on his lips.

John raised his eyebrows in surprise. What the hell was _that_ about? He was diagnosed with PTSD himself, but Mycroft had made it very clear that he doubted this diagnosis.

Before the baffled soldier could say anything in reply, Mycroft twirled around to face the doctor.

"If anybody ever speaks of emotions in my presence, I will have them arrested and brain-washed! I will delete this word from their vocabulary!" he hissed between gritted teeth.

Everyone's eyes widened and neither of the doctors dared to speak.

"Mycroft. - Mycroft! Calm down. That's how human beings function, so don't let this unsettle you," John intervened, knowing that his words could very well have the opposite effect of what he was intending.

For a brief moment there was silence in the room apart from the regular background sounds of the various machines. Abruptly, the wild look in the personified British Government's eyes subsided and he seemed to be a little disoriented for a split-second before mumbling his apologies.

The doctors went back to the work they had come for, adjusting the syringe pumps and cutting Sherlock off of the sedative. All they could do was wait and monitor the Consulting Detective carefully. Within the next couple of hours he should show signs of awakening, however weak they might be.

John didn't know how much time had passed; he had obviously drifted into another dreamless sleep. When he woke up again, Mycroft was sitting at Sherlock's bedside, scrutinizing his younger brother. The anaesthetist and a nurse were leaning over his flatmate and John realised that they were removing the ventilation tube. The sound of gagging had apparently woken John.

Gagging was good, it meant that the breathing and gag reflexes were no longer suppressed and Sherlock was at least able to supply himself with oxygen and didn't need the intratracheal breathing aid any more.

"His eyelids are fluttering." Mycroft all of a sudden remarked excitedly. He jumped from his chair, pushing it out of the way.

John felt the same pang of excitement and he wished he could be of any assistance to the doctors. It was odd to be so close to his flatmate but not able to help him in any way. This time he was confined to just being an observer. He tried to sit up even more in his bed, but his body disabused him of doing so. He fell back to his cushions reluctantly without averting his gaze from Sherlock.

"He's opening his eyes," he heard the older Holmes comment what Sherlock was doing.

John saw him leaning in on his younger brother.

"Welcome back, Sherlock," he said softly, giving his brother a genuine smile, however looking at one of the doctors questioningly a moment later.

"He's still very sleepy, Mr Holmes, don't worry that he's closed his eyes again. It looks very good so far. Of course we have to wait until he is fully responsive; however, there are no distinct abnormalities in the EEG so far. It really seems he had had a great stroke of luck."

Mycroft closed his eyes and wiped his face with his hands. He was apparently extremely relieved. However, his face displayed an entirely worn expression. It had been hard for him, leading a country and fearing for his brother's life.


End file.
